


Through The Looking Glass (and what Merlin found there)

by nuttyshake



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It of Sorts, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4728314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuttyshake/pseuds/nuttyshake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Arthur's death, Merlin goes back to the crystal cave to seek the comfort of his father. Knowing the future never brought Merlin anything but trouble but, when the crystals show him glimpses of a past he never lived, changing the present suddenly seems a very tangible possibility; all Merlin has to do is swap his reality for one Arthur doesn't die in. It's too bad, then, that regardless of the universe he finds himself in, every road he takes leads back to Camlann.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through The Looking Glass (and what Merlin found there)

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write this story for the past year and a half and I'm so grateful to the After Camlann Big Bang for giving me the chance, and the motivation, to finally do it. It's been a wild ride that helped me not only grow as a writer, but as a person. Hopefully, there will be no more unfinished works and unfulfilled resolutions on my part.  
> I want to thank [peasgopopping](http://peasgopopping.livejournal.com) for choosing to make gorgeous art for my story, and my wonderful betas [soneaselene](http://soneaselene.livejournal.com) and [WitchoftheWaste](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchoftheWaste/works); thank you all for working with me, enormously improving my writing, and occasionally putting up with more americanised words than I would've liked.  
> For everyone reading the story: I hope you enjoy it and decide to leave a comment, short as it may be. I also appreciate constructive criticism, so don't feel bad about it; any kind of feedback is more than welcome.

* * *

Merlin found the cave just as he’d left it. No heap of rocks blocked its entrance now, which considerably decreased any chances of getting stuck inside, but crystals were still embedded in rock and sharp boulders on the ground, casting blue shadows on the cavern roof and floor. They glowed in the darkness, their magic calling to Merlin’s own like light to a moth; Merlin felt it respond, building up inside of him step after step as he made his way through the central chamber.

The cave hadn’t changed, but everything else had. For the past three days, Arthur’s absence had shaped a world Merlin no longer knew how to walk on, where up was down, and right was wrong, and Arthur had been laid to rest while Merlin got to live.

Naive and selfish as it was, the part of him that didn’t want to feel alone had taken comfort in other people’s mourning – in the candles held up all night in the courtyard below Arthur’s window, in Gwen’s tears, in the knights’ fleeting glances.

He’d taken full advantage of their open arms and tired eyes, wanting to fool himself into believing those around him could understand the extent of his pain, but it hadn’t taken him long to see the world had stopped its course just for him. The sky hadn’t turned grey for anyone else, and only a few days later everyone was slowly moving on with their lives, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened - and maybe, for them, it hadn’t. Kings came and went, died and were born, were crowned and overthrown every day. That Arthur Pendragon had died was a news that could, at most, bring distress to those who believed him capable of great things, maybe even a loss the people could mourn for a while, but ultimately, not one important enough to halt a whole kingdom.

On his way to the cave, Merlin had seen peasants running through villages, screaming “ _Long live the Queen_ ” at the top of their lungs, the sun warm and blinding and seemingly mocking his grief by brightening up a cloudless blue sky. The world was clearly trying to lull everyone into a false sense of peace, but he knew better. Just because the Saxons had run off, stripped of their leader, it didn’t mean they weren’t just around the corner, gathering their forces and getting ready for another attack. And without Arthur to inspire fealty and loyalty and courage, Camelot would fall.

The one thought that kept nagging at him was that Arthur dying just before the dawn sounded like a sick joke. He shouldn’t have died at all, but the sun shouldn’t have come up without him to witness it. It should have rained and thundered, and the wind should have swept away every house nearby, and the Earth should’ve crumbled to pieces under the hurricane that was tearing Merlin apart.

Instead, all around him was joy, happiness and light.

So much light.

He didn’t know what he’d hoped to find by crawling into the Crystal Cave. Peace, he’d never have. _Quiet_ , maybe. “A sense of familiarity in a disrupted reality” was his closest guess. But the real answer came to him when he found he was already looking at it.

Merlin’s breath caught in his throat. “Father.”

A shrouded figure emerged from the shadows, his steps feather light, barely touching the ground. The man smiled kindly, if not a little puzzled. “Emrys. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

A halo of ethereal light circled his dark curls, a once tanned face and a scruffy beard. The paleness of his complexion was enough for anyone to question his actual existence, but his ghostly appearance was only heightened by his body’s near-transparency.

Merlin hadn’t tried to touch him the last time he’d been there – he’d been too out of his depth to do anything at all, and at first had even shrugged off Balinor’s presence as a figment of his imagination, but he was pretty sure if he reached out to pat his shoulder or to wrap him in a hug, as Merlin so desperately wanted, his hand would just pass through his father’s body.

So he forced himself to keep his feet planted on the ground and waited for Balinor to come to him, not daring to take a step forward.

“My son,” Balinor tilted his head to the side in wonder, “what are you doing here?”

Merlin blinked back the tears that had been welling up in his eyes – so many tears already shed, and they never, ever stopped coming – and lowered his gaze, clenching his fists to keep his emotions under check and unnecessary words from flowing out of his mouth. “Arthur is dead.”

_Dead,_ the echo bounced back. Merlin’s nails dug hard enough in his palms to draw blood, making him wince.

Balinor stared at him, his eyes clouded with sadness. “I know that much. Merlin, I am so, _so_ sorry.”

“Why?” Merlin lifted his shoulders hopelessly, lacking the strength to shrug properly. His voice sounded hollow to his own ears. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Nor was it yours.”

Merlin laughed bitterly, his chuckles coming out as little hiccups. “Of course.”

Balinor huffed and patted a spot on the ground, signalling Merlin to come sit down next to him. Merlin dropped ungracefully to his knees.

“I failed, didn’t I?”

Balinor shook his head. “Don’t ever think that.”

“But Arthur died.” Merlin looked at him through his wet eyelashes, a cold fist clenching around his heart. “I was meant to protect him.”

“Arthur was never meant to be immortal, Merlin. No matter how much you wanted him to.”

“Then what was my purpose?” He swallowed the lump blocking his throat, preventing him from speaking, and inhaled a shaky breath. “What was I ever good for if Arthur was always meant to die?”

“You needed to protect him until Arthur fulfilled his destiny.”

“But he didn’t!” Merlin protested. “There is no Albion. Magic is still outlawed. The Saxons are still lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike, and when they _do_ strike they will find a weakened kingdom at their mercy.”

Balinor looked at him gravely. “I suppose all that we can do now is trust in Guinevere.”

“ _Guinevere_. Right.” Merlin knew he was being downright unfair to Gwen, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. “There is no reason why a former servant wouldn’t be able to do what the Once and Future King couldn’t accomplish in a lifetime.”

“A pretty short lifetime, if we’re looking at it that way,” Balinor pointed out.

“It wasn’t _her_ destiny,” he snapped. “It was _his_ , all along. More than that. It was supposed to be-”

_Ours_ , he didn’t say. He broke off abruptly and kept his head down to avoid meeting Balinor’s sympathetic gaze. Merlin imagined what it must’ve looked like to him – the son he’d only known about for a day, coming to visit his father’s ghost after his best friend’s death just so he could have a silent cry and maybe a little understanding. But Merlin hadn’t come there to be pitied, nor to be assured that everything was alright, because he knew it wasn’t.

The Dragon had lied to him, told him that everything he’d meant to build had come to pass to comfort him, maybe, but his own estranged father wouldn’t try to sugarcoat the truth – or so Merlin had hoped.

He heard Balinor sigh, gearing himself up for an attempt at soothing him. “Merlin, I am sorry for your loss. But what Kilgharrah told you was true. Arthur’s death will set off a chain of events that _will_ bring your destiny to fulfillment. It can be no other way. It may take a second, or a thousand years, but destiny always comes to pass. Often not in the way we expect it.”

Instead of reassuring, Balinor’s words came off as threatening. It had been such a long time since Merlin had actually cared about destiny as more than a simple excuse to keep Arthur alive, that the implication that the world would just carry on without Arthur and fix itself - that human lives were so dispensable in the grand scheme of things - was too much for him to handle.

He’d always known he and Arthur were pawns, but he’d wrongly assumed they were still somewhat important pieces on the chessboard.

Then he remembered something else Kilgharrah had said - the one hope that, against all odds, still kept him alive. “Kilgharrah promised that when Albion’s need was greatest, Arthur would rise again. Is this what he meant?”

“You mean, that one day Arthur will come back?” Balinor furrowed his eyebrows. “I can’t know for sure, but yes, it’s possible.”

“So that’s it? I just have to wait until he shows up so we can pick this up again?”

“Merlin-“

“And I suppose he’ll have to die again as soon as everything’s fine, right? That’s all the use we are to them.”

Rather than screaming at him for his insolence, like Merlin had been expecting, Balinor just looked at him patiently. “Who’s _them_?”

“Whoever’s pulling the strings in the background. They build people up to be special and to shine brighter than everyone else and then get them out of the way when they’re not needed anymore.”

His father smiled sadly. “Maybe that’s why they shine so brightly.”

Merlin found himself pondering about how ridiculous that was. Arthur couldn’t have cared less about being remembered as the king who had such good resolutions that he couldn’t carry out in the end. He’d only ever cared that his people were safe. And what a good job he could do at protecting them from Avalon, too.

Arthur’s death had been neither epic nor beautiful, nor had it been some kind of coronation to his existence. It had been raw, and messy, and Merlin had been too busy crying over his corpse to kiss him goodbye.

Arthur hadn’t shined as he’d closed his eyes for the last time and went cold, but he could have. If the gods had let him live, he could’ve shined so brightly.

But Balinor didn’t seem to notice his train of thought, and went on undeterred. “If that is any comfort to you, Merlin, if Arthur’s dead, that means his job is done. He will come back when Albion needs him, but now is not that time.”

“And I’m just supposed to accept that.”

Balinor shook his head solemnly. “No. No, you shouldn’t. Because as long as you live, there’s always hope. But-“ Merlin had seen that _but_ coming, and rolled his eyes, “it is better for you if you do.”

Merlin was relentless, fighting against chords that were restraining him without understanding that it was a lost battle. “No.”

“You’ll go mad if you don’t-”

“I don’t _care_.”  Merlin had meant to shout, but somehow his voice had come out in a horrible, broken whisper that even he couldn’t stand to hear and that made his father flinch. “I don’t care, I just- I want him back. Please, bring him back. _Please_.”

Balinor just stared at him blankly, not understanding what he meant. So Merlin pressed on, slowly watching a spark of understanding dawn on the other’s face. “I know there’s a way. There must be.”

Balinor’s eyes drifted sideways just for a moment, observing something over Merlin’s shoulder, and Merlin’s skin suddenly became too tight for him as his suspicions were confirmed. “Is that why you’ve come here?”

Merlin nodded. There was no use in denying it. As much as he’d truly wanted to see his father again, he’d chosen the Crystal Cave for a reason. If all he’d needed was comfort, he could just as well have gone to visit his mother in Ealdor, or stayed in Camelot so he and Gwen could have yet another therapeutic cry together under Gaius’s sullen gaze.

“Taliesin showed me this place for a reason.” He recalled. “It’s the place where magic began. All the magic in the world, gathered _here_ , in every one of those crystals. Amidst all of that magic, there _must_ be a way to save Arthur.”

Balinor grimaced. “Oh, Taliesin. Thinking he can play God just because he’s powerful enough to have a concrete body and walk around.”

“But he wasn’t lying,” Merlin pushed. “This cave holds the secret of time. Every past that ever was, every present that could’ve been and every future that will ever be. And if I can see all of that – maybe I can also change it.”

Merlin watched Balinor sit up, suddenly alert. “Merlin, tampering with time is dangerous. More dangerous than you can ever imagine, and much, much harder.”

“I know that,” Merlin replied breathlessly. “But I need to know that there’s a chance, any chance at all, to fix this. If there are any straws to grasp at, I will grasp.”

Balinor shook his head vehemently. “Only the gods can change a mortal’s fate. There is nothing you can do.”

Merlin lifted his chin defiantly. “I won’t give up until I try.”

To the exchange followed a silent staring match between father and son, neither of them quite willing to back down and admit defeat.

Merlin understood his father’s concern, what with him being known to get himself in all kinds of dreadful situations and still somehow managing to further mess things up for himself, but Merlin had nothing left to lose anyway. Not Arthur, not his honour – not that he’d ever had it to begin with – and not his life.

If he left anything unattempted, he’d keep on living with the knowledge that he hadn’t done everything possible to keep Arthur alive. The thought of failing Arthur again, of being the cause of his death, would weigh on his shoulders forever.

And forever was such a long time. Far too long a time to live in guilt and sorrow.

He begged his father to understand, to help him. _Tell me you wouldn’t do the same,_ he pleaded silently. _If you had the chance to go back and stay with us, if you knew better than to give in to Uther’s tricks, tell me you wouldn’t do the same._

Merlin figured Balinor must’ve been thinking among the same lines, because, although reluctantly, he gave a short nod. “Very well. So there’s no changing your mind.”

Merlin’s heart skipped a beat at those words. “So how do I do it? How do I save Arthur?”

“Merlin, I don’t know.” Balinor insisted. “I’m telling you no one’s ever managed to do such a thing. I could show you some of the futures that could’ve come to pass, but you’ll never get to see them all - much less change the course of time.”

If each crystal could show him a different path his life could’ve taken, there must’ve been thousands. Millions, even.

Merlin brushed off Balinor’s passive aggressive comment. His palms were sweating, his hands itching to grab. He didn’t want to keep fighting about this. “And if I were to try?”

“It takes much too high a power, Merlin, much higher than yours.”

Merlin rose to his feet to touch the nearest crystal on the wall. “Then we’ll think about it later.”

He felt Balinor’s eyes intent on watching him, waiting to see what Merlin would do. Truth was, he had no idea what to do, and he wasn’t going to ask Balinor for help yet, so he kept on mindlessly stroking the crystal as if it held in itself all the secrets of the universe.

Visions had always just appeared to him, always meant for him to see as soon as he looked in a crystal, but now it was his time to trigger them. Just like the last time he’d been there, when all that it’d taken him to find Arthur was to call his name and _look_.

He wasn’t sure it would work now. Not with Arthur, anyway. Where he was now, no magic and no amount of desperation could ever reach him.

Merlin knew that. And yet, he found himself whispering a single word. Again and again, like a prayer.

“Arthur.”

_Arthur. Arthur._

For a moment there, the crystal seemed to glow brighter. Merlin suddenly became aware of Balinor’s stiff presence beside him, but he was unable to take his eyes off of the blurred image taking shape on the crystal.

It was Arthur. Younger, much younger than he’d been when Merlin had first met him, but definitely, unmistakably Arthur. Four feet tall, a blond mass of tousled hair and startled blue eyes, his chair barely lifting him up to eye level with the edge of the table. He was straining to make some sense of the conversation Uther was having with his counsellors, but all he could manage was to occasionally nod at his father’s response – always his father’s, no matter what.

Then the reflection shifted. A taller, more broad-shouldered version of Arthur was riding a horse, sliding into place next to Morgana. Merlin almost jumped at the sight of her, but he remembered that there was a time when Morgana had been kind and selfless – a time when she and Arthur had been friends. The two of them were laughing, chasing each other and goading on their horses to run faster. Morgana occasionally attempted to throw him off his saddle to gain some advantage on him, but Arthur was well-trained and well-balanced; he wouldn’t fall.

Merlin never did get to find out who won the race, because the crystal now showed Arthur sparring with his knights, matching Leon blow for blow. Knights and courtiers alike had gathered around them and were gawking at the crown prince, some of them shaking their fists and placing bets.

Arthur as Merlin had first seen him – the sun swallowing him whole in its light, as if it had travelled through time and space just to shine on him. Arthur on his coronation day, his newly forged crown catching the first glint of dawn, his cloak spreading out behind him like the trail of a bride making her way to her groom. Arthur actually standing at the far end of the throne room, watching his very own wife-to-be kneel in front of him, adoration shaping his lovesick smile.

Arthur’s sword raised up high over his army as they dived on the Saxons, the plain of Camlann tinged with blood and studded with the motionless bodies of the fallen – Arthur never backing down, never hesitating to get in the middle of a fight to protect as many of his people as he could.

Arthur’s body flopping down like deadweight, his legs giving way under him, his insides being ripped through to make room for Mordred’s blade. A scream of agony piercing the air – not Arthur’s, for he fell as silently as he would have with a slit throat, but Merlin’s - tearing him apart from the inside out, its rawness bringing him to his knees.

And yet, for all of his pain, his cry died down all too soon. He’d screamed too loud and too long for too many days for him to properly externalise all the rage and hurt and guilt that wore him down without choking – and unlike his voice, the grief never ceased, never stopped, not for one second. And unlike Arthur, it never ever died.

Watching the light go out of him day by day had been bad enough, but seeing Mordred as he delivered the final blow felt too much like losing him again. If Arthur had always been meant to fail, as Balinor had so delicately put it, the least the gods could’ve granted him was an honourable death. No, whether they could grant it or not was irrelevant – they _owed_ him. He was _owed_ a death in battle, fighting for what he believed in. Merlin had every reason to think it was exactly what had happened in the first place.

But Arthur had just been caught by surprise.

He’d hesitated when he should’ve struck and that hesitation had cost him his life. All because of his compulsive need to see the good in those who wouldn’t think twice about harming him – a tendency encouraged by _Merlin’s_ own need to save everyone, including the boy who he had known to be a threat to them all. He couldn’t blame Arthur for not being able to kill the druid boy he’d helped save so long ago; he couldn’t blame anyone but himself.

_He_ had brought him to the castle. He had protected him and healed him and made Arthur care about him, and he hadn’t been strong enough to let Mordred die when the time had come.

He’d been weak back then, willing to put the safety of innocent lives above his own – above Arthur’s. Merlin would never make that mistake again.

Balinor had knelt beside him when his breakdown had first started, and was now calling him over and over again, trying to bring him back to his senses, but Merlin couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears and the echoes of his screams still bouncing off the cave walls.

What eventually arose from the sea of sounds in his tangled mind was a muffled gasp that could’ve come from no one but his father. Merlin picked it out among the other noises and focused on it, letting it anchor him back to reality.

“Emrys,” Merlin realised Balinor was saying. He started to focus on more things at once: Balinor’s warm hand shaking his shoulders, his knees on the hard rock, the cold biting at his cheeks where tears had fallen. “Look up.”

A bat of eyelashes. A stirring of fingers.

Merlin looked up.

He found himself face to face with Arthur. Not the real Arthur, and not one Merlin had ever known. The crystals showed him sitting on a throne – the greatest, most beautifully intricate throne Merlin had ever seen, a golden crown capturing the light of the sun on his blonde head. He was shrouded in his red cloak, his smile so very real and serene that it made Merlin’s chest ache with want.

And all around him, butterflies. A swarm of blue butterflies flying in circles, tickling him, resting on his outstretched finger. They rose from Merlin’s hand at will, instruments of his love and adoration, and in Arthur’s joyous laughter was everything Merlin had always hoped his own eyes could say.

_That_. That was what he wanted, what he longed for, what he’d been promised.

He shrugged off his father’s comforting hand from his shoulder and got to his feet, newfound resolve filling him to the brim. The glow from the crystal had considerably dimmed once back to being nothing more than a reflecting glass, but Merlin stepped into it, watching the crystal intently.

“Merlin?” Balinor’s voice sounded far away. “Is everything alright?”

Merlin’s shaking hands tightened into fists. “I need you to show me something.”

He could tell Balinor wasn’t that enthusiastic about it, sadness dripping from his lips as he spoke, but he complied without question. “Anything you wish.”

“How it would’ve been,” Merlin drew the words out, “if Mordred had died.”

Balinor frowned. “I’m going to need you to be more specific there. Would you care to elaborate?”

“Mordred killed Arthur because he _could_. Arthur cared about him too much to keep his guard up in front of him, and look where that got him. If I make it so Mordred died before he could get to Arthur-”

“And how is that anything you can do?”

“I need to be with Arthur at Camlann.” That seemed the quickest, easiest option. “I need to get there in time and be with him, so I can save him.”

“That, I can do.” Balinor nodded absently. “I can show you what would’ve happened had your magic never been taken away, but I can’t guarantee Arthur’s survival.”

“What about Mordred’s?” Merlin’s voice wavered dangerously, seething with rage and hatred. “Because there’s nothing in this or any other world that’s stopping me from killing him this time.”

“Unfortunately, Mordred can’t be truly killed until Arthur is,” Balinor slowly said, “which is why you never went through with it, despite how much you wanted to. It was never your fault. And Arthur can’t be killed by anyone but Mordred – which is why Morgana never could, either.”

Merlin released a bitter laugh. “And all this time I thought it was because of my almighty magical powers.”

“You were nothing but a means to an end, Merlin.” Balinor whispered, like he were divulging a secret he wasn’t supposed to know in the first place. “The gods didn’t want you to protect Arthur. They just wanted you to keep everyone but Mordred away, so destiny could run its course. Going against destiny is something not even you can afford.”

A huge blast rocked the whole cave, heaps of rocks falling over one another in a fairly impressive show of strength, if Merlin had to be honest.

“They made me to be the most powerful sorcerer to ever live. I can do anything.”

Balinor didn’t so much as flinch when all the crystals lit up at the same time, but Merlin was almost thrown back by the sheer power they emanated, his body being pulled into a thousand different directions, a thousand different realities, a thousand different pasts.

Yet he forced himself to stay put until he found what he was looking for.

* * *

 “Twelve.” A glint of gold passed through Merlin’s eyes, gone too fast for anyone to notice. The dice rolled on the tavern table, both stopping on six dots, and the crowd around him erupted in cheers.

The tavern air was hot on Merlin’s skin, blood rushing to knights’ and peasants’ cheeks alike as they gulped down tankard after tankard of mead. Merlin himself was starting to feel a bit lightheaded under the influence of the alcohol, every nerve in his body yelling at him to throw his hands up and hug everyone in the room, including the blonde-haired, blue-eyed prat sulking amiably in front of him, his head dropping in defeat. But for some reason  he couldn’t grasp, Merlin didn’t think Arthur would appreciate it very much, so he settled for taking all the money on Arthur’s side of the table. “Next round’s on me.”

More cheers. Gwaine, already drunk out of his mind in the back of the room, tipped over the edge of his chair in his haste to get up and go get more free ale, as Merlin had taken good care to ransack his purse as well.  Then Arthur had stepped up, wanting to restore the kingdom’s honour, and peasants had started coming in the front door every other minute as soon as news had spread.

Apparently, the townspeople just couldn’t wait to watch their king get his arse kicked by his manservant.

In his drunken haze, Merlin had considered how different it would’ve been – how different it _had_ been – with Uther as king. Those who would’ve cowered in fear before Arthur’s father were now openly mocking and celebrating Arthur’s defeat without Arthur so much as batting an eye. He’d even wondered, just for a second, if those townspeople knew who they were standing in front of – but of course they knew. Even while wearing a simple shirt and breeches, Arthur managed to stand out. There was a light to him, a sense of purpose to the way his back stood straight and his head held high; no one seeing him could doubt his royal status.

It made Merlin wonder how he could’ve thought Arthur was anything less than royalty the first time he’d seen him. He liked to think he’d been too preoccupied with Arthur’s arrogance and less-than-pleasant ways to notice anything going on underneath, but he’d be lying. If he hadn’t seen something in Arthur worth knowing from the start, he’d never have picked a fight with him at all. He would’ve defended the poor squire’s honour, that was a given, but there was no way he’d have fought a battle he couldn’t win. Not in Camelot, not without his magic and not without being sentenced to death. He wouldn’t have been that reckless. But something had propelled him forward, and was propelling him forward even now, ten years later.

Merlin never took too long to find Arthur in a  crowd, be it a whole army in the middle of battle or a thick, smelly group of townspeople. And in fact, there he was, leaning against a table and gesturing animatedly to Percival, who was straining to hold back his laughter.

Percival seemed to take Merlin’s arrival as a divine blessing, because he quickly excused himself and immediately went to join Gwaine, chuckling to himself all the way to the bar. Merlin started to see why as he got closer: Arthur looked positively pissed.

Merlin helpfully held up the two tankards in his hands. “You look like you could use several drinks.”

Arthur glared at him, but there was no true hatred in his eyes – just mild annoyance mixed with something that closely resembled affection. “I would,” Arthur said, “if you’d left me anything to pay with.”

Merlin grinned. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m paying for you. It’s your money anyway.”

“I’ll be dead before I let my own manservant buy me a drink.” He grumbled under his breath. “But I see you already put your talents to good use somewhere else. Maybe I should sack you.”

“Nah. You’d miss me too much.”

Arthur’s coy smile was confirmation enough for Merlin to unleash the battalion of butterflies held captive in his stomach. _As I would you._

Merlin knew he wasn’t allowed to touch him, not the way he wanted to. If he’d reached out to stroke Arthur’s cheek, or grip his wrist, or just to lean his hand on his shoulder without a discernible reason, like one of them being in immediate danger, Arthur would bat it away and yell at him. That was just the way it had always been, and Merlin had never fooled himself into thinking he could change that.

But then there were those times, those terrible times when Arthur wouldn’t even make a sound, but dismay would be written all over the downturn of his mouth, his straightened posture and the sudden wariness of his eyes - and Merlin would have taken all the screaming and slapping in the world over the awkward silences that were sure to follow, the accusing glances shot at him when Arthur thought he wasn’t looking, the agonizing distance Arthur kept between them. Merlin would enter Arthur’s chambers to wake him up in the morning only to find him already up and dressed, and Arthur would talk to him only to assign several tasks that would keep him busy all day.

Merlin could survive the stocks – the humiliation that came from it, the discomfort in having eggs thrown at him for hours on end, smelling like rotten fruit for a whole day despite the many baths he took. He could survive immeasurable amounts of work and carry loads of weight from the bottom of the stairs to the top tower of the castle. Hell, he could and had survived too many battles to count, fighting by Arthur’s side when everyone else thought all was lost.

But he thought he would die if Arthur stopped looking at him the way he was now. He was drowning, falling deep down in the darkness closing up on him and he needed to hold on to something to keep himself breathing.

A sweaty, bulky guy shoved Merlin aside, sending him flying across the room in his wake. “ _Move,_ ” he grumbled, cup trembling in his hands, fizzy liquid spilling out.

He wouldn’t have dared shove Arthur, of course, but Merlin was disposable. Arthur seemed to find the whole ordeal terribly funny and – not that Merlin expected him to come to his rescue or anything – only went to help him up when the guy was comfortably seated at a table not too far away.

“Some people just have no manners.” Arthur commented while pulling Merlin up – filling his vision with blue sparkles and his ears with genuine laughter and Arthur's hand gripping his wrist just a little too tight. Merlin revelled in the feeling, hoping Arthur would’ve blamed his yelp on pain rather than pleasure. “If he’d known you were paying for his drink, he wouldn’t have dared.”

Merlin focused all of his attention on rubbing his shoulder to prevent himself from reaching out. “He would. But it doesn’t matter.”

Oh, he shouldn’t have drunk so much. Arthur trying to get Merlin back on his feet again was a good enough reason for Arthur to break his own no-touching rule, but the alcohol haze was doing wonders to Merlin's thought process and Arthur’s mouth was too close.

_Help. Help, help, help._

Arthur, too, was laughing too hard for it not to be a consequence of the many drinks he’d had, which Merlin was thankful for, because if he’d realised Merlin was drunk as well he’d end up demanding a rematch and his money back. He could feel Arthur’s breath on his cheeks. “All right, let’s get you out of here before anyone gets hurt.”

“You underestimate me.” Merlin mumbled as Arthur sneaked an arm around his shoulder to get him walking, and Merlin decided no one would notice if he did the same.

Their heads bumped clumsily as they moved together, both of them occasionally rubbing their bruised jaws and muttering muffled apologies to each other.

“Frankly, Merlin,” Arthur chuckled after almost knocking over a table, “I think I know you better than that.”

“Liar.” Merlin whispered. “You do underestimate me. Otherwise I wouldn’t still be stuck a servant.”

Arthur did a double take at that. “Does it bother you? Being a servant?”

“No. No, I like being by your side. You know that.” Arthur grunted in response. Of course he did. Merlin always overcompensated for the lack of physical contact by reminding Arthur of his loyalty to him – just in case he forgot. “I just feel like-“ Merlin bit his lip in thought. “Like – maybe you could show a little more appreciation once in a while.”

“What, you need motivation?”

He shook his head. “I need to feel _useful_.”

Arthur suddenly stopped in his tracks, his smile twisting into a pained grimace as if he had bumped into a table Merlin could not see. He wouldn’t put it past him, as he was seriously starting to doubt his own eyesight – there was no way the glint he saw in Arthur’s eyes was a tear.

In fact, it was only seconds before Arthur plastered his grin back on, so Merlin didn’t bother trying to get any explanation out of him. No need to get Arthur worked up over a trick of his drunken mind. “I’ll carry you home. Come on.”

“Nooo.” Merlin whined. “I don’t wanna go.”

“Gaius will be worried about you.”

“You can tell him I’m sleeping here,” he begged. He was too tired to move. “Please?”

Arthur didn’t reply right away. Merlin peeked through his drooping eyelids and saw him looking down at him, felt his hands gently ruffling his hair. It was so relaxing that Merlin thought he’d fall asleep right then and there, on the tavern floor, and someone else would have to pick him up. “All right.” Arthur nodded, his head dropping to meet Merlin’s forehead. “All right, I’ll take care of it.”

The next thing he heard was Arthur calling someone out. “Leon! Are you sober yet?” He couldn’t make out Leon’s answer. “Good! Tell Gaius that Merlin’s drunk out of his mind and spending the night here. And tell Guinevere not to wait up for me, I don’t trust Merlin to be alone right now.”

“What are you doing?” Merlin muttered, but he doubted Arthur heard him. He was being lifted up so Arthur could match him step by step while walking up the stairs. “You don’t even know if there are any vacancies.”

“Leon’s taking care of it.” Arthur said. “If there’s no room someone will just have to leave.”

“I love your optimism.”

“I’m just paying you back for all those times you didn’t let me wander through the castle without any trousers. I owe you one.” Arthur was trying to guide him around a corner, but failed miserably and cursed so loudly Merlin was sure the whole tavern had started to evacuate under the threat of a wild animal attack.

“You don’t look much more sober than I am.” Merlin observed.

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur hissed through his teeth. “Be grateful I’m sober enough to carry you.”

“Oh, I am.”

The two of them collided against a door as soon as they were in the hallway. The door gave under their collective weight and Arthur and Merlin found themselves tumbling in a – thankfully - empty room.

“Ow.” “ _Ow.”_

“Get off of me.” Arthur whined, getting on his knees for Merlin to roll off his back. Merlin was too worn-out to argue or even apologise.

“Well, we made it.” Merlin tried to get to his feet as steadily as possible, hoping Arthur too would be too tired to make some snarky remark about it. “It was very nice of you to take me here. Maybe you’re not as much of a prat as you’re pretending to be.”

“Nu-uh.” Arthur slurred behind him. Merlin didn’t turn around to check, but by the sound of it he was pretty sure Arthur was still lying face down on the floor. “I’m staying.”

“And this is the part where yet again I’m proven wrong.” Merlin hopped on the nearest bed he could find and stuck his face under a pillow, shutting out the sound of Arthur’s unsteady footsteps.

“Seriously, Merlin. You always complain you don’t feel appreciated. I’m showing some appreciation.”

“Do you know I would die to sleep in your bed?” Merlin mumbled, though at that moment he would have gladly died to sleep _anywhere_. “And you’re giving it up for lice-ridden sheets and creaking boards?”

“Well, I can’t very well let you sleep in my bed, can I?” The other bed creaked under Arthur’s weight. “So this will have to make do. My bed will still be there once I make sure you’re fast asleep.”

Merlin groaned at the thought. He’d never been in Arthur’s bed - of course - but he’d jumped on it enough times to know how warm and cosy it was. He envied Gwen for that: the transition from a servant’s cot to the royal bed must’ve been heavenly. Merlin should’ve just been glad he wasn’t sleeping on the floor anymore, but Arthur’s bed had made more than a few appearances in his dreams, some of them featuring Arthur himself in less than complimentary roles - not that he’d ever let himself dwell on it.

“So what, you’re trying to feel normal? Pretending that you’re not king for a night?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Merlin’s chuckle came out a lot more hysterical than he’d meant it to be. “Then I’m sorry to inform you that by breaking into a room you’ve broken a few basic rules.”

“ _God_ , Merlin, being nice to you is _exhausting_. It’s no wonder I never try.”

Merlin finally stuck his face out of his pillow to face Arthur, only to find him aggressively staring at the ceiling. “You do know you don’t need to be so closed off about it, right? You’ve got something to say, just say it. I promise the ground won’t open just because you said something nice.”

Arthur wasn’t looking at him. He was shaking his head, but if Merlin hadn’t known he’d been listening he would’ve thought him disapproving of the cracks on the ceiling. “It’s not that, Merlin, I just...” he sighed in such a pained way that Merlin would’ve crossed the room to comfort him, had his brain not been screaming at him to stay put. “I’m not used to this, so I’m- I’m trying to tell you in another way.”

Merlin took advantage of Arthur’s distraction to really look at him. He got so few chances to properly take him in that he decided he wouldn’t mind if Arthur caught him just this one time, if only that meant he would stop pretending Merlin wasn’t in the room with him.

“But you are.” he whispered, realisation setting in. “You are used to being nice, and to making people feel special, otherwise you wouldn’t have so many people willing to follow you into hell. You just don’t bother with me, because you know I would follow you into hell either way.”

Arthur didn’t reply, and Merlin just quietly nodded, ignoring the pit that had opened up in his chest and swallowed his heart.

“And you’re right, you know. I would. So if you’re trying to be nice now because you’re worried about me turning on you or something like that – don’t bother. Because I won’t.” He burrowed his face further into the pillow, so now he could only see the outline of Arthur’s face. “I would die for you. I thought you knew that. Even if you hated me, even if you wanted me dead – I would _die_ for you.” He shook his head. “But I thought I meant more to you than that.”

When he decided that Arthur wasn’t going to answer either way, he stopped trying to force a reaction out of him. He thought maybe Arthur had just fallen asleep, but he kept his head down and didn’t bother to check, lest he see Arthur still wide awake, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

It didn’t matter; he should probably get some sleep too.

He closed his eyes.

“You do.” A whisper Merlin didn’t recognise as his own broke the silence, so weak and broken he would’ve thought his mind was playing tricks on him, had he not heard it again so soon after: “How can you not see?”

Merlin made a non-committal noise and rolled on the other side of the bed. “Just forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

“It _does_ matter. I-I thought you knew. You mustknow by now.”

Of course Merlin knew. Just because his devotion to Arthur was severely unrequited didn’t mean Arthur didn’t care about him at all, and he’d showed it time and time again. What hurt him was that Arthur would only go so far as to externalise his feelings when he doubted Merlin’s loyalty – and Merlin thought he’d gone to great lengths to convince him otherwise. “I’d never betray you, Arthur. I’d never leave you. So that you would imply-“

“I don’t think you understand.” Arthur’s figure lifted off the bed, casting his shadow over the wall Merlin was staring at. “Merlin, look at me.”

“I did, for about ten minutes. You didn’t look back.”

“Then look at me _again._ Please. I’m only saying it once and I don’t feel comfortable talking to your back.”

Merlin considered not replying and trying to fall asleep, as Arthur had done so many times before when he didn’t want to listen, but Merlin couldn’t afford to lose the only chance they’d ever have at an honest conversation. If he didn’t let Arthur speak now they’d never speak of it again, and in the morning they’d be back to thinly veiled truths and the occasional white lies.

Merlin wanted to listen just as much as Arthur wanted to speak. So he sat up.

And immediately, Arthur leant over the small space between their beds and crouched next to Merlin’s. Arthur’s hands came up to cup his face, fingers gently stroking from his cheekbone to his jaw. Over and over again, and each time more torturously slowly than the one before, as if he’d been carefully tracing what he wanted to say on Merlin’s cheek rather than saying it out loud. So Merlin started focusing on the movement of Arthur’s thumb, on the circles it drew on his bare skin. His eyelids drooped closed, eyelashes just barely grazing Arthur’s palm.

“I know I don’t tell you often enough.” Arthur started out carefully, his voice just barely above a whisper. Merlin had to strain to hear it, but Arthur’s breath felt cool on his skin – like those gentle spring breezes, sweeping away what winter left in its wake and never bothered to collect. Breezes that seemed to hint at far happier, warmer times and bluer skies. Merlin just hoped they’d both live long enough to see another spring.

Arthur frowned, nose scrunching like it always did when he was deep in thought. “Well, I’ve never actually _told_ you before. As a joke, maybe – but it was never truly a lie.”

Merlin nodded expectantly. “All right.”

Arthur held his gaze, his Adam’s apple moving up and down as he swallowed. “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Merlin masked his sharp intake of breath as a cynical laugh. “Of course you don’t. Wouldn’t want to wash that chainmail all by yourself, would you?”

“No.” Arthur shook his head, begging Merlin to stop, to understand. “No, that’s not what this is about. I appreciate what you do for me as a servant, but I could find someone better suited for the job any day.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Have you ever wondered why I never did?”

Merlin shrugged. He wasn’t a fool, so he found himself echoing his own words from not one hour before. “You’d miss me too much.”

Arthur didn’t confirm it nor deny it, but his eyes lit up in relief, which Merlin took as agreement. “I know I used to be ashamed of calling you my friend, but I’m not anymore. I do need you.”

Merlin shook his head. “You have tons of other friends.”

A sad smile shaped Arthur’s lips, gone as quickly as it had come. “No, I don’t.”

“You do.” Merlin insisted. “You have your knights, and your counsellors. And all those kings and queens in nearby kingdoms who would all die for you.”

“I know.” Arthur shrugged. “But I can’t just go to Nemeth and talk to Mithian about my insecurities, or- or send for Elena in Gawant so she can give me some girl advice.”

Merlin tilted his head to the side. “That’s what you need me for? Girl advice?”

“ _God_ , no. It was just an example.” Arthur grimaced at the thought. “And my counsellors aren’t even _my_ counsellors. They’re my father’s, and they weren’t his friends either. As for the knights...” Arthur seemed to struggle to find a good reason. Not that Merlin thought he was lying – he could always, always tell when Arthur was lying – but it was almost like he’d never even considered the idea of his knights as friends.

“You must feel so lonely.” Merlin commented. Not that he didn’t already know, and not that it hadn’t been for years his motivator to stay as close to Arthur as possible, but he just wanted to let Arthur know that he understood, that he was there for him.

“A little.” Arthur admitted. “But you’re lonely, too. Maybe that’s why we get along so well.”

Merlin raised both eyebrows at that. “ _I’m_ lonely?”

“Am I wrong?” Merlin didn’t reply. “There always seems to be something weighing on your mind, and you never smile anymore. I want to help but I don’t know how.”

“It might be hard for you to believe, Arthur, but I do have friends.”

“Most of them are dead.” Arthur felt the need to specify. “Not to be rude or anything.”

Merlin almost wanted to laugh. Almost. Not because his friends were dead, but because there Arthur was, all mocking and persistent, either unaware that his kingly honour was the reason they’d died or _pretending_ not to know to fight a guilt that couldn’t belong to him. “What are you trying to accomplish here, exactly?”

Arthur himself seemed confused about the answer – but when he found it, he cast an inquisitive glance to the empty spot next to Merlin, asking a silent question. Merlin nodded, and Arthur sat down with great care as if trying not to startle him.

“I just feel like you know everything about me, and I don’t even know you.” Arthur confessed. “I wonder if there’s anyone who does.”

There was Gaius, of course, who had known who Merlin was from the first day he’d set foot in his chambers. He’d had Lancelot too, once, and Will, and Freya. They’d all known and protected his secret with their lives, but that didn’t necessarily mean they knew _him._ There were times when Merlin himself didn’t know who he was anymore, and couldn’t help thinking that everyone else – the Great Dragon, the druids, even Mordred – seemed to know better than he did.

Arthur focused in on Merlin’s cryptic expression. “If anything was troubling you, would you tell me?”

Arthur had been honest with him. He’d told him things he’d probably never tell anyone, and now he was expecting him to retaliate; not because Merlin owed him, but because he’d wanted to prove himself worthy of Merlin’s trust. And Merlin just wished he could explain, and that Arthur could understand, that it had nothing to do with trust and everything to do with duty.

If he ever did decide to tell Arthur, it wouldn’t be while half drunk in a tavern room.

“Of course.”

Though not satisfied by Merlin’s response, Arthur apparently decided not to push the matter and just gave him a quick smile before playfully punching his shoulder and standing up to make his way back to his own bed.

He turned around just once. “By the way, I’m only talking to you like this because you’ll be too drunk to remember any of it in the morning. Just so we’re clear.”

But Merlin never forgot.

* * *

In the morning, he was welcomed by the news of a magic-sucking creature in Gaius’s chambers. Not exactly the good morning omen he’d been hoping for, but it proved to be useful distraction from the earful Merlin was sure to receive, as they both chose to focus on the potential danger Merlin had just escaped.

Merlin listened as Gaius recounted going to his room to wake him up and finding a large, leechlike monster instead and how he’d fought it off, and dread closed in on Merlin’s heart like a fist when he realised someone had been trying to get him out of the way – and there was no questioning Morgana’s involvement. Now that Mordred had come back to her, tail between his legs and mouth loaded with secrets, they should’ve been expecting it, should’ve seen it coming from a mile afar, and yet it didn’t make it any less horrifying to know that Morgana had been this close to breaking Merlin – and, by extension, Arthur – for good.

Merlin and Gaius kept their guard up all day, taking turns to periodically check any place they might step into, but they  decided Morgana would not strike again so soon, not while they were still holding their breath waiting for her to make a move.

And make a move she did – but not in Camelot.

* * *

Merlin had fought many battles by Arthur’s side, and all of them he’d fought armed with only a sword.

So it stood as proof of how threatened Arthur felt by Camlann that he spent a good twenty minutes begging Merlin to stay put (“You could stay in the tent with Gaius and Guinevere,” he’d suggested, to which Merlin had replied “No way in hell”). Arthur had then proceeded to find Merlin a full suit of armour, complete with shield and helmet.

He’d even offered Merlin his own sword, the sword Arthur didn’t know was forged in a dragon’s breath – the only sword that could kill Morgana and, arguably, Mordred too. Merlin could’ve taken it and spared Arthur the pain of killing them both, as he had the chance to do so many times before, but Kilgharrah had been clear: such a weapon had to be wielded by Arthur and Arthur only, as for Arthur it had been forged, and though Merlin had broken that rule more than a few times he didn’t feel comfortable taking Arthur’s guarantee of self-worth away from him in the most important battle of his life. Merlin could handle himself just fine, but Arthur – Arthur needed all the help he could get.

Merlin had considered telling Arthur about what the druid seer had shown him, what Finna had told him, but how would that have changed anything? Arthur fully knew what he was getting into. Merlin could’ve gone up to him and recited the prophecy according to which Arthur would die that night word by word, and it still wouldn’t stop him from getting on the battlefield and fighting to his last breath.

He’d even considered kidnapping Arthur and locking him up in a tower far, far away from Camlann, before realising he’d be sending the entirety of Camelot’s army to its death, including Gwaine, and Percival, and Leon. No matter how much he needed Arthur alive, he wouldn’t sacrifice Camelot’s people for his cause.

Thankfully, he’d never had any reserves about sacrificing himself. If it came to it, if it helped kill Mordred and save Arthur, then he was willing to do whatever it took.

So he’d had to look into Arthur’s eyes as Arthur pleaded him to be careful, and promise without meaning. And he’d heard Arthur say it back, only to realise he’d lied too.

They’d never be free of their little web of deception. There would always be missed links and words unsaid and vows unkept. Merlin already strained to keep track of it all, and he knew that if the day ever came that he wanted to be fully and completely honest with Arthur, he’d have no way of encompassing every little thing.

As Camelot’s soldiers started their descent down the side of the mountain to meet the Saxons, Merlin focused on just that: a vision of the future. Because there _would_ be one, for both him and Arthur. All he had to do was find Mordred and get to him before he could cause any damage.

Quite predictably, Morgana hadn’t placed him in the front lines, but Merlin was willing to bet he wasn’t in the rearguard either; Arthur’s men would have to slash through Morgana’s army from both sides to get to Mordred, safely tucked in the middle and protected from all directions – that is, if he was there at all. He didn’t rule out the possibility of Mordred hiding with Morgana on a rock outcrop just to pop out of nowhere and strike Arthur from behind. He didn’t think of Mordred as the cowardly sort, but he assumed Morgana would’ve done anything to protect him, just as Merlin would have done for Arthur if he’d had any choice in the matter.

And just like Arthur, Mordred had turned down the chance to keep himself out of harm’s way  in favour of walking right into it. Merlin spotted him near a rock boulder, singlehandedly fighting three of Camelot’s knights. He wasn’t even surprised to see them all go down at once, and before Mordred could so much as lift his little finger to use magic; Arthur had always been right, thinking that Mordred was one of his finest knights. He’d been far too good a teacher to someone who had the power of life and death over him.

Merlin couldn’t stay and watch Mordred for too long, or even think about approaching him, because some bulky Saxon suddenly sprang into existence and got in Merlin’s way. Merlin could’ve easily blinked him dead and gotten it over with, but the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself when he most needed discretion.

Their swords clashed, blades roughly sliding on one another, leaving no room for hesitation. Merlin happily retaliated, slamming his sword on top of the Saxon’s hilt, forcing him to lose his grip. He took advantage of that little distraction to catch the enemy’s sword with his magic and stab him with it.

His next opponent attacked him from behind, but severely underestimated Merlin’s reflexes, as all it took for Merlin to avoid the blow was to duck. The Saxon wasn’t as lucky, falling face first in the dust and sent rolling far away from Merlin, right into sir Leon’s sharp blade.

For a split second, Merlin wanted to call out to him – to him and Gwaine and Percival. He wanted to warn them not to let Mordred get any closer to Arthur, to get to him before he could cause any harm. As fierce and brave as the three of them had proven themselves to be, they were fighting _the wrong people_. None of those Saxons posed a serious threat to Arthur’s safety; the one they should’ve been worried about was not too far behind them, and he was being carefully ignored by those who once were his closest friends.

Merlin knew, though, that Mordred held no such reserve, and that if Merlin did manage to pit Mordred's former fellow knights against him, they’d have no way of making it out alive.

He should’ve forged more swords. He should’ve taken lots and lots of them from the armoury and forced Kilgharrah to bathe all of them in dragon’s breath, and then replaced each and every one of the knights’ swords with effective ones while they slept. It was all he could think about while fighting man after man, until he found himself surrounded by at least ten Saxons.

Morgana must have given them direct orders to take him out. He’d never gotten this much attention in battle, scrawny little thing as he was, and he’d been counting on that to buy him some time – but as he looked up to the rocky outcrop Morgana was standing on, he saw her look back and smirk.

She must’ve known getting him out of the way was a quintessential step to the success of her world dominance plan, and she also knew all too well, as Merlin did, that he couldn’t face ten people at once - not without using magic and potentially exposing himself to both armies. He was dead either way.

Merlin was just getting ready to strike and hope for the best when one Saxon fell to his knees, revealing Arthur behind him, sword deep in the newly dead man's back.

Arthur gave the rest of the group less than a second to recover before pulling out his bloodied sword and slashing at them wherever he found a weak spot – backs of the knees, throat, armpits. Merlin helped as best he could but, as it turned out, Arthur could take care of himself just fine, and as soon as all ten men were down, either dying or severely wounded, Arthur’s hands were all over Merlin, checking for injuries. “Are you hurt?”

Merlin winced as Arthur gripped his shoulder right where it was bleeding, but he shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“But your shoulder-“

“I said I’m fine.” He tore it out of Arthur’s grasp, which, according to the sharp stab of pain shooting up there, probably hadn't been one of his brightest ideas. “It’s not my sword arm. _Look out.”_

He pushed Arthur out of the way just as Gwaine entered the circle of dead bodies to add one more Saxon to the list. The Saxon’s knife hovered right above Arthur and Merlin’s heads before clattering to the ground, along with its owner.

Merlin lifted his head to thank Gwaine, but when he peered past him he couldn’t help but notice that the place was now almost deserted, littered by the dead and dying alike. The battle had moved away, distant screams swallowed by a greater silence. Merlin couldn’t tell by that alone how many people were left standing, if any at all; but if it was a cemetery he was standing in, and unmarked graves those he was walking upon, then he had no reason to think the voices he heard could not belong to ghosts. All he knew was that Mordred had disappeared, too - and if there was anything he’d learnt from Uther, it was that you should never trust vengeful ghosts.

“Arthur.” Merlin shook Arthur’s arm and tried to push him back. “Go. Get out of here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Arthur shook him off and instead unsheathed his sword, hell-bent on moving forward and getting himself killed.

“Leave _now_ , Arthur.” He insisted. “Do this one thing for me and I swear I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows, clearly unimpressed. “Another one of your funny feelings?”

Merlin had been about to reply when he spotted the shadow of death lurking right around the corner, his advance so silent that neither Merlin nor Arthur had seen him coming. His insides turned ice cold. “Not this time.”

Arthur didn’t turn around fast enough, but Merlin did – and that was enough to send Mordred flying just by the wave of a hand.

Merlin had barely checked to see if Mordred had any intention of attacking Arthur, if he’d even actually seen him at all - which he had. He had or he wouldn’t have been lurking in the shadows, sword unsheathed, waiting for the right time to make his move, nor started running towards them the exact second he’d noticed Merlin staring at him. But all of that didn’t matter; it didn’t matter because Merlin had acted upon his hatred before Mordred’s actions could justify it, before Merlin could process anything beyond the black hair and blue eyes combination that he’d learnt to recognise as the stuff of his nightmares.

A few years back, he might’ve even felt bad about it. Right now, he had bigger problems to think about than the moral implications of hurting Mordred - like the fact that he’d only just postponed his and Arthur’s reckoning, or...

Or the way Arthur was looking at him, all wide-eyed and open-mouthed, his body so stiff and closed off that Merlin could almost _see_ walls and barriers tumbling back down again. The way ten pairs of eyes felt like a hundred when they were burning holes in his head, swords raised to his throat as if he were the monster they’d been supposed to fight all along.

Merlin’s heart jumped in his throat just so it could be swallowed whole again. “Arthur-“

Arthur almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to get away. “Take him.” He only half-whispered, failing to catch the attention of the few knights still left in that part of the plain. “ _TAKE HIM!_ ”

In no time at all, Merlin’s arms were constricted and his body hauled out of the circle despite him kicking and screaming Arthur’s name - not to mention his eyes turning gold every second, which did nothing to calm down the people restraining him or to help him break free. He wasn’t trying hard enough, and he was aware of that, but they were Camelot’s – and Arthur’s – last chance; he couldn’t afford to kill them or injure them or knock them out.

Only Gwaine kept himself on the sidelines, pulling on Arthur’s arm and yelling at him with such vigour and certainty that Merlin figured he must’ve known about his secret for quite a while, trained for this exact moment many times before. Merlin had no idea, but practice or not nothing he was saying was having any effect on Arthur.

Desperate to break free, Merlin cast a silent spell to slip out of the knights’ grasp, but he was caught again right after and started sweating cold when a knight lifted his sword on him.

And _then_ Arthur reacted.

 “Wait!” The knights all turned to look at him, Merlin’s hope revived if only for just a second. A whole different kind of fear burned in Arthur’s eyes for a full second before mastering his face back into his previous expression, disappointment masking anger masking hurt. “Don’t kill him. Take him to Guinevere – lock him up in the tent until this battle’s over, and then we’ll decide his fate.”

“ _No._ ” By then it would already be too late. “Arthur, you won’t _survive_ this battle without me. Mordred will be back and he’ll kill you.”

“Take him away.”

“I don’t care if you kill me! Just keep me here until Mordred’s dead, or he’ll get to you first!”

Seeing how Arthur was willing to ignore his existence for the time being, he appealed to Gwaine. “Keep him safe. Please!”

Gwaine’s nod and reassuring smile was the last thing he saw before being dragged away.

* * *

Needless to say that when about ten knights showed up to Guinevere's tent carrying a desperate, golden-eyed Merlin, Gwen was speechless. Three times Merlin heard her ask for an explanation, and three times she got the same answer: Merlin was a sorcerer, he ought to be put to death, but the king had decided to wait until the end of the war just in case he proved himself useful.

If Merlin himself hadn't had his own doubts about Arthur's decision to spare him and if he hadn't been caught in the middle of such a dire situation, he would've waited until he and Gwen were alone to laugh with her at how wrong those knights had got it, just like they used to when the both of them were servants.

Gwen eventually did ask him about it, if Arthur actually meant to execute him for trying to save his life, but Merlin didn't have an answer - so he stayed quiet while Gwen talked about how much Arthur truly cared about him, and how he was just hurt but would come to his senses soon enough.

"I don't care that he's hurt." Only he did, but that wasn't the point. He was ready to lie and beg and cry to get out of that damn tent. "I care that he's alive. Which he won't be for long if you keep me here."

Gwen sighed, crossing her hands to her chest. "Don't worry, I won't."

"You won't?" Oh. That was surprisingly easy. "You won’t even demand an explanation?"

"I know better than to ask for one." Maybe, if they'd had this conversation under different circumstances, Gwen's smile wouldn't have looked so forced. “But if Arthur wanted to keep you as his secret weapon there really wouldn’t be a better time to use you.”

“That’s _exactly_ what I’ve been saying to those turnip-heads.”

This time, Gwen chuckled in such a way that Merlin almost forgot where they were and what was going on right outside. He couldn’t help but laugh with her, his stomach unclenching and his lungs finally taking in the bit of fresh air he so desperately needed. “Oh, I keep telling Arthur to sack them, but he won’t listen.”

“We should just sack Arthur too, then.”

With a final laugh and all the care in the world, Gwen approached him and untied the rope binding him. “Well, you better hurry or we won’t need to.”

She tugged on the last chain and Merlin was free, bearing red marks on his wrists as the only reminder of his time in captivity. Gwen said nothing more, only checked to make sure he was alright, and then started to walk away.

“Gwen.” He waited until she was looking at him again to get to his feet and speak up. “Thank you.”

She nodded. “Maybe try not to get caught this time.”

* * *

He flew.

Despite his efforts, Merlin had never quite got the gist of flying or teleporting, but he didn't let that stop him now.

He flew without his feet ever leaving the ground, his legs powered on by thoughts of Arthur wounded and bloodied and left to die alone.

It had taken  him all of thirty minutes to go to and from Gwen’s tent back to the battlefield, and he  had still been too late.

* * *

“That’s _enough.”_ A voice boomed in his head, drowning out all sounds of battle and grief. Merlin wasn’t sure if it had been his father’s or his own, but it had succeeded in bringing him back to reality only to realise he’d dropped to his knees for what felt like the hundredth time in the past three days. Warm, silent tears were running down his cheeks, tears that Merlin took furious care to wipe before Balinor could notice.

He was holding Merlin by the shoulders, letting him gradually adjust to being back in his own body and his own mind. Merlin should’ve guessed messing with time would be a traumatic experience in itself, but to his defense, he only expected the crystals to _show_ him a past that never came to be rather than directly drag him into it.

Balinor squeezed Merlin’s forearm in apprehension. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Merlin shook his head dejectedly. “I didn’t.”

“I feared so.” Balinor tried to help him up, a rugged twist to his mouth. “What went wrong?”

“I was there with Arthur, at Camlann, but, in order to save him from Mordred, I had to use magic.”

Of course a sword wouldn’t have been enough; the gods wouldn’t make it that easy for him, not if they could spend their days up above and down below being endlessly entertained by his daily misadventures. Oh, how they must be laughing right now.

“Arthur saw me. He had me locked up in Gwen’s tent and by the time I made my way back, he’d already met his death. His deathblow, at least.” Reliving their hopeless journey to Avalon and Arthur’s death all over again had never been part of the plan. “I’ve betrayed his trust.”

“You were trying to protect him.” Balinor reminded him. “If he’d pushed you away, he wouldn’t have survived long.”

“That’s just a lie I tell myself to help me sleep at night.” Merlin said. “If I actually had faith in Arthur and in the goodness of his heart, I wouldn’t have believed him capable of harming me or killing me. I wasn’t trying to protect _him_ – I was trying to protect myself.”

“Not out of self-preservation. Arthur couldn’t succeed if you weren’t alive, and you’ve been proven right to think that, if he had found out, you might as well be dead to him.”

Merlin had thought about it long and hard in the days spent on Avalon’s shore, waiting for a boat to magically come back out of the mist, and he’d come to one simple conclusion:

_A king destined to bring magic back to the land wouldn’t execute his own best friend for being a sorcerer._

Ideally, he wouldn’t execute anyone, but all Arthur could afford in the middle of a war was the tiniest bit of hypocrisy for those he cared about the most; Merlin had just never thought he was among those people.

“He wouldn’t have hurt me.” Merlin whispered. “Not in a million years. Timing was just off.” The most important and most dangerous battle of their lives wasn’t exactly an ideal setting for a long conversation about Merlin’s magic and Arthur’s feelings about it, especially considering ten people at once were threatening to kill him. For all he knew, locking him up might’ve been Arthur’s way of keeping him safe. “If I’d told him earlier, we could’ve worked this out before it was too late.”

“Merlin, we’re talking about the son of Uther Pendragon here. How can you be sure-“

Merlin wagged a menacing finger at him. “Oh, don’t you _dare_ compare him to Uther. Arthur is nothing like him.”

“So you say.” Balinor acknowledged. “And yet, he’s done nothing to prove otherwise.”

“What do you mean?” Merlin couldn’t decide if he wanted  to laugh or lay a fist on his father’s face. He might’ve been more willing to listen under different circumstances, but this – this was not the day to pick a fight with him, and about Arthur of all people. “He’s done _everything_. He challenged Camelot’s own rules, made knights of commoners and queens of servants. He was kind and just and always respected and protected his people with his life. He _died_ so they could all be safe.”

“And what of you?” Balinor slid closer to him. “What of you, whose faith in him has never once faltered? Has he ever done anything at all to benefit you?”

“Why are you talking to me like this?” His screech echoed off the cave walls, the amplified sound hurting his ears and making Balinor flinch. “Nothing you will ever do or say will make me give up on him. _Nothing_.”

Balinor pinched the bridge of his nose the way Merlin’s mother had done so many times when he was being difficult, which both comforted and embarrassed Merlin to no end. “Merlin, the success of your whole plan relies on you not overestimating how much Arthur cares about you. I’m merely trying to help.”

“Over-“ Merlin was at a loss for words. His hands were just flailing about, looking for an outlet for his outburst, his mouth ajar and struggling to settle on one single emotion to convey. “You - you have no idea what it took for me to accept that Arthur cared the slightest bit about me. How it felt to go about every day, thinking that I was worth nothing to the man I devoted my life to, and now –“

“Now,” Balinor tried to reason, “you’re going to tell me what is it that changed your mind. Because if you’re doing this, Merlin, I need to know that Arthur is deserving of my trust as well as yours.”

Merlin blinked, unimpressed. “I thought magical beings looked up to Arthur. I thought they hoped he could free them.” But then again, Camelot _had_ been attacked by vengeful sorcerers more often than Gwaine paid visit to the tavern, as Balinor’s snort implied.

“Arthur was a means to an end. Nothing more and nothing less. It’s you they trusted their lives with.”

“Then it’s _me_ who failed.” He retorted. “Not Arthur. I’m the only one to blame for his misguidance, and I can prove it to you. If you let me.”

Merlin could tell Balinor wasn’t up for anything that furthered his son’s pain and guilt complex, especially if there was no guarantee they’d be lifted in the end, but he didn’t stand a chance against the pleading and vaguely threatening stare had been perfected through years and years at Arthur’s service.

Balinor caved at last. “You don’t need my permission, Merlin. You and I both know you would do it anyway. But I’d at least like to know if you had any specific moment in mind.”

Merlin sighed in relief, finally allowing himself to drop his façade. “Actually, I do.” And then he added, almost as an afterthought: “I suppose it was too much to hope I’d get it right on the first try.”

“Most people don’t even get a first try, my boy.” Balinor reminded him. “I won’t take this chance away from you, but you have to know what’s at stake. Now close your eyes. Picture the moment you’re trying to change.”

Merlin didn’t even have to picture it. It was always right there, at the edge of his consciousness, waiting to be acknowledged so it could taunt him some more. All he had to do was let it in.

One of the crystals started glinting, and Merlin slipped into the anguish that was to come like a second skin.

* * *

At that time of year, Merlin was sure the White Mountains weren’t supposed to be this cold.

With about a decade of experience and countless expeditions to his name, Merlin had quickly adapted to every and any weather different parts of Albion decided to throw at him, from Ismere’s frozen tundra to the stifling heat of the midge infested swamp Merlin had fallen in facefirst while trying to pull Arthur’s leg out of enchanted quicksand.

Spring, however, had always been a time for early blossoms and clearer skies, a time Merlin looked forward to every year just to feel magic thrum under his skin at the reawakening of the sleepers. Merlin never felt as deeply connected with nature as when he rode through fields of newborn flowers and old oak trees and soaked in every ounce of sunlight the world had to give, and Arthur had soon learnt that setting Merlin loose for a few hours was better than having to call him out every other second for being distracted by pretty butterflies while hunting.

It was only recently that Merlin had started to refuse to let Arthur out of his sight, though he’d let him think he’d just grown fonder of hunting; in reality, he still felt the pain of every single deer Arthur aimed his crossbow at, but he always insisted on coming with him just in case the newly knighted Mordred randomly decided to run Arthur through with a spear when no one was looking.

It wasn’t that far off from what the Disir were asking him to do, after all - just suck it up for Arthur’s sake and look the other way while he did his killing so Mordred would be taken care of. But this time it was magic users, as much Merlin’s own people as the subjects of Camelot were Arthur’s, that he ought to sacrifice for his selfish gains – the very people he’d gotten into this whole mess for. Betraying them would mean forsaking everything he ever was.

It didn’t help that Arthur was staring at him inquisitively, waiting for a quick answer to the same question that was troubling him, too.

_So, what should we do? Accept magic or let Mordred die?_

The two things Merlin desired the most, and he could only choose one. He bet the Disir were laughing at him.

Worst of all, he thought his magic was taunting him, too, his every nerve standing to attention at the slightest breeze, his heartbeat matching that of any living creature with a pulse. What only hours before had felt like an innocuous rustling of leaves was now overwhelming him with life, his magic instinctively lashing out to reach the deepest parts of him and point him in the right direction. The only clear thought Merlin could form at the moment was that if it felt so threatened by his choice, then it already knew what it would be, which was more than Merlin could say for himself.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Merlin knew exactly what choice to make, because it had never been a choice at all; and maybe this wasn’t even Arthur’s test in the first place, but his. What it was that the Disir wanted to test, however, was a whole other story: his devotion to Arthur, or his devotion to the cause? Would he even need to keep protecting Arthur from all harm if Merlin finally set them both out on the path to achieve everything they were born to do? Was that still the reason he went to such great lengths to save Arthur’s life, even going so far as to sacrifice an innocent boy’s life and condemn his people to eternal misery?

He finally looked back at Arthur to find the wrinkles on his forehead glaring accusingly at him, and he suddenly, painfully knew what the answer was. And it was one he couldn’t accept.

He’d hate himself for it – maybe his whole life. But used as he was to sacrificing his own personal happiness for the greater good, he wasn’t afraid of adding one more thing to the list, not if he could finally end the oppression weighing on his kind. There would surely be more chances to kill Mordred – a thought process he’d already followed through when deciding whether to help him escape or not many years back – but if he somehow managed to convince Arthur that magic could never be tolerated in Camelot, not even to save a friend-

“Arthur,” he urged, as though Arthur hadn’t been intently watching him for the past five minutes or so, “save Mordred.”

Oh, how he would regret it.

Arthur looked confused for a few seconds while taking Merlin’s advice in; then he leant forward, making sure he’d heard right. “Are you suggesting that I accept magic again?”

Merlin tried to derail the question. “I’m suggesting you save a brave and honourable knight who was mortally wounded trying to protect you.”

“Oh, so it was _my_ fault?”

Merlin allowed himself a breath of relief for succeeding to take Arthur’s attention away from his sudden stance in favour of magic. “No, Arthur, it was no one’s fault. But you know it’s the right thing to do.”

Arthur shook his head at that. “I can’t be responsible for potentially disrupting the peace of my kingdom. Not to save _one_ man.”

“If you were so sure of that,” Merlin noted, “my opinion wouldn’t matter.”

“Oh, _shut up_ , Merlin. Your thoughts are giving me a migraine.” He then proceeded to massage the side of his head as if Merlin had just spent the past three hours screaming at the top of his lungs rather than going through his daily self-deprecating ritual. “I’m just asking for your advice, doesn’t mean I will follow it. Especially since I’m not so sure it has anything to do with Mordred at all.”

Merlin shrugged, covering his nervous laugh with a shiver and the rustle of his jacket as he pulled it tighter around him. “What ulterior motives would I have?”

“I don’t know. I was just never under the impression you liked Mordred very much.”

He didn’t even have the strength to deny it, so he just jumped to the part where he made up more lies to make his cover story look real. “That doesn’t mean I wanted him dead.”

Arthur scoffed. “When we were in Ismere, you yelled at me for not killing him.”

“Because back then he was on Morgana’s side.” Merlin lamely explained, fighting the temptation to slap himself in the face for his carelessness.

“He redeemed himself a thousand times over.” Arthur reminded him, gesturing all around them at the place they’d ended up in as a consequence of Mordred’s loyalty. “Why hold it against him?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time we caught a traitor in our midst. I was trying to be careful.”

“By killing anyone we can’t trust on sight?” Arthur shook his head disbelievingly. “This isn’t you, Merlin. Acting like my father, joining my hunting trips without complaining. You used to be so much kinder.”

Merlin cleared his throat. “No offense here, Arthur, but you’re the one who’s insisting on letting Mordred die.”

“If there was anything I could do to save him, I would. But I’m _not_ allowing magic to run free again.”

Merlin sighed. There had been a time, not too long before, when Arthur would’ve been so much more accommodating towards magic, and the reason Arthur wasn’t anymore was all Merlin’s own doing. Which made it all so much more difficult and so much easier at the same time to change his mind.

“Arthur, magic is already running free. It won’t stop just because you want it to. Maybe, if the ban was lifted, people could even start using it for good rather than focusing all their energies on war and hatred.”

Arthur dismissed him with the wave of a hand. “Maybe, could, even. That’s not enough guarantee. I’m sure if Mordred was here, he would understand. He wouldn’t want me to risk the safety of my kingdom.”

“You can’t know that!” Merlin sputtered. “And that’s no excuse - if Gwen was the one whose life was at stake, would you really care what she’d have to say?”

“Merlin,” Arthur drawled out slowly, letting his big head drop on his knees as he pulled them up to his chest, “you and I both know this is not about Mordred. So why are you suddenly defending magic?”

Merlin froze. He thought about opening his mouth to make up more lies, but then thought better of it if it avoided him any more trouble. “Are you going to execute me for that?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur shrugged as if the matter was of no concern to him. “Am I? Maybe we both should just start speaking frankly.”

“How can I speak _frankly_ ,” Merlin mimicked, “when I could say the wrong thing and find myself without a head? Not exactly fair, my lord.”

“You _always_ say the wrong thing, yet any beheading business is still to ensue. That should tell you something about how much I value your life.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “I’m flattered.”

“And I’m serious,” Arthur said. “If you want me to put my people in danger because of your whim, the least you could give me is an explanation. And please – stop lying.”

Merlin shook his head. He didn’t _want_ Arthur to do anything, nor did he have the power to force him into wholeheartedly accepting the same magic that had killed his parents and corrupted his sister. But instead of acknowledging that, Arthur was treating him with the same condescendence and impatience he would’ve reserved to any servant who burst into the royal chambers wanting his master to bring about a revolution. Which he _had_ , indeed, much more discreetly been trying to do all those years. Now that the time had come, he had no idea how to face it.

His mind started going through all sorts of sentence starters: “not all magic users are evil”, “magic is a doubled-edged sword,” “your hypocritical self burns sorcerers for a living but uses magic to his own gain, so it would only be fair” - but ultimately, his magic made the choice for him.

It surged out of him, soaring at the chance to finally prove itself. Merlin shouldn’t have been surprised at its reluctance to be reeled back in, considering just moments before he’d been one thought away from chaining it altogether; what got to him was the way it instinctively reacted to his unspoken wishes nonetheless, still as much part of him as an arm or a leg.

Magic filled the air between them,  drawing a comfort bubble all around the campfire and caves. Golden tendrils reached out to touch a wide-eyed, startled Arthur, who pulled away with so much horror in his eyes and disarray to his limbs that he effectively ended up sprawled out on a bed of leaves.

A thousand alarm bells went off in Merlin’s head, but his desire to protect Arthur only passed on to his magic as a need to forcefully wrap around him and scare him further to death. Arthur never screamed, but given the rate at which his heart was thumping – and Merlin could feel it against his own chest, so strong it was – it was safe to assume that it had nothing to do with quiet acceptance and everything to do with his muscles being paralysed with fear.

Merlin willed his magic to be gentle, to be kind, tried to tame it with the swipe of a hand so that it was caressing Arthur rather than assaulting him. It threaded through his hair, the most tender of touches to bring him back, and then trailed down his face and shoulders, chasing away all thoughts of pain and wariness to make way for pure, unadulterated wonder.

That’s when Arthur’s head shot up again, leaves still clinging to locks of hair and cheekbones, elbows helping him to a sitting position. “What the _hell_ was that?”

His eyes were restless, moving back and forth between Merlin and the hand that was groping thin air. Merlin saw no use in dropping it now, though he _was_ having a hard time keeping it from shaking.

“Magic.” Merlin murmured. “You’re supposed to be fairly acquainted with it by now.”

“Magic.” Arthur repeated, nodding his head as to ingrain that notion into his head. “And why - _why_ exactly was magic shooting out of your palm, Merlin?”

“Oh. It’s actually a funny story.” Magic still buzzed in the air around them, bringing both Merlin and Arthur great discomfort. “See, I- I kind of was born with it.”

“You were born with it.”

Merlin chuckled. “I hadn’t realised we were playing parrot. All right, here’s a good one.” He fake cleared his throat. “ _Merlin, I really appreciate all you did for me for the past ten years and I will retaliate by not executing you on the spot.”_

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur snapped, seemingly unaware of how frightened he still sounded. “If this sorcery is your doing you _will_ get it away from me right now.”

In the beat before Merlin could start compulsively apologising about how little control he had over his magic, the tiny drops of light seizing Arthur almost seemed to take a wrong turn and bounce off his skin in disgust, as if afraid of catching a deadly plague – which wasn’t that far off from the truth, actually. Merlin couldn’t say if his magic really was afraid of Arthur, or if it was just trying really hard to please him; all he knew was that, one second later, Merlin’s magic was slamming back into him, knocking him off-balance in the process. Arthur made no move to help.

“Look, Arthur,” Merlin started out, moving towards him as cautiously as if he were approaching a wild beast, “I know I should’ve told you-”

“And _you_ ,” Arthur addressed him the same way he would a piece of caked mud on his shoe, “get out of my sight.”

Merlin was slightly taken aback. He had expected anger – lots of anger – and loud yelling, possibly a swordfight to the death right then and there, but cold contempt he didn’t know how to face. “Arthur, please, listen to me.”

“Don’t touch me.” Arthur batted away the hand that was reaching out to him and took three steps back to further prove his point. “You’ve just lost the right to.”

“See, this is exactly why I’ve waited so long!” Both of Merlin’s hands were held up between them now as a guarantee of peace, not that it was doing anything to stop Arthur from walking in circles. “How was I supposed to broach the subject with you?”

“I don’t know, _Merlin_. I’m sorry for assuming the topic would’ve come up  in the _ten_ years I’ve known you.”

“It’s coming up now, if that counts for anything,” was Merlin’s lame excuse, when all he could think of was _please don’t kill me._ Luckily for him Arthur hadn’t made a move for his sword just yet - and didn’t seem to want to, either - but his overly hateful glare seemed to wholly make up for that, as it was a deadly weapon itself.

Merlin had never thought the day would come that Arthur would look at him like that, but part of him had been dreading it all along. Of the countless selfless reasons he could list off the top of his head for not telling Arthur about his magic – from wanting to preserve Arthur’s innocence to needing to stay in his good graces – the one thing he was afraid of admitting was his one selfish fear of Arthur looking at him the same way Uther would.

Arthur’s fear was of a whole different kind, rooted not in a yearning for Merlin’s acceptance but in a lack of self-assurance. It was a sense of loneliness and betrayal that animated his next three words: “I trusted you.”

“I know. But you’re going to have to trust me again.” Merlin begged. “Just this once, if you care about your kingdom and your legacy, you _will_ listen to me.”

Arthur shook his head in disbelief, his mouth ajar. "Why would I do that?”

Merlin scrambled for an explanation, one that was good enough for Arthur to ignore his entire upbringing and believe a sorcerer’s words. Appealing to their friendship right now would mean hitting a clearly sore subject, and reminding him of the many times Merlin had inexplicably been right would only open a lengthy discussion he wasn’t ready to have. “If you’d wanted me dead, you’d have killed me already.”

Arthur scoffed at that. “Just because I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, do not assume I’m trusting anything you say ever again.” But he still made no move to get away from him, which Merlin counted in as a promising start. He chose to take advantage of the situation before Arthur could change his mind.

“You were destined to make this choice, Arthur. Since the beginning of time, you were meant to bring magic back to the land. This is the moment you seal your kingdom’s fate.”

His words were met by an eye roll. “Always so melodramatic.”

“Yes, I am.” Merlin admitted. “Because I’ve seen with my own eyes what will happen if you keep this up. They’re already rising against you.” He didn’t need to specify who _they_ were.

Arthur looked like he’d eaten an extremely sour grape and was dying to spit it out. “That’s no way to ask for respect.”

“What else are they supposed to do, Arthur? You kill sorcerers on sight. Trying to gain your trust means pretending to be something they’re not, which is actually quite counterproductive if you ask me.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing all along? Pretending to be my friend so you could push your magical agenda on me?”

Merlin blinked, torn between feeling outraged and wanting to cry. “No. No, you’re missing the point-”

“Leave me,” Arthur repeated, his hand gestures so imperious that Merlin flinched, almost expecting to see sparks of his own come out of Arthur’s fingers. “I don’t want to see you right now.”

Merlin opened his mouth to say something, to plead for forgiveness – but Arthur’s clenched jaw and fists were answer enough. Before Arthur could start screaming, Merlin bowed his head deferentially, trying to ignore the stab of pain in his chest. “Yes, my lord.”

Apparently satisfied with this response, Arthur turned back to the fire crackling between them and Merlin took that as his cue to stand up and leave. He never stopped staring at Arthur through the whole process.

“The sun is rising, Arthur.” He reminded him as gently as possible. “Choose wisely. You can’t go back from here.”

* * *

Unsure if Arthur still trusted him enough to go back to Camelot, but not wanting to get lost in the woods until he was specifically told to, he awkwardly waited at the edge of the sanctuary for Arthur to come back and give him more directions about his future whereabouts – and maybe, just maybe, let him in on his decision.

At least, Merlin considered, he’d done all he could. He’d once again chosen to ignore the dragon’s advice for Arthur’s sake, prioritising his wish for peace and unity over Merlin’s compulsive need to protect him, allowing him to achieve the greatness he deserved rather than condemning him to a long, unhappy life. And if Arthur still chose to let Mordred die to preserve the safety of his kingdom – well, that was one less problem for Merlin and a longer life expectancy for Arthur, as the most selfish part of him didn’t fail to point out.

Arthur, however, had been asked to choose between the two worst evils he could imagine – letting one of his most faithful men die or forgiving the magic that had harmed him and many others in the first place – and by the looks of him when he showed up again he was far from having reached even a somewhat strained peace of mind. By the time he’d made his way down the steep slope, the sun had been up for so long already that Merlin wondered if the Disir had proven themselves more patient after all or if the encounter’s outcome had called for desperate measures like soul-searching, until he realised asking futile questions was his mind’s way of diverting his attention from more pressing matters.

He couldn’t wait to speak any longer. “Will…will Mordred be alright?”

Arthur looked at him like he’d only just noticed he was standing there, and would much rather being kept in the dark. His eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “Why are you still here?”

“Because I really care about my friend Mordred, you clotpole.” Merlin resisted the urge to slap him across the face, as it wouldn’t help his cause, but not even a furious, betrayed Arthur could keep Merlin’s mouth shut for too long.

“Indeed you do.” Arthur scoffed. “Much more than you care about me.”

Merlin was well aware that neither of them was actually talking about Mordred, but he just blinked, feigning ignorance. “I hadn’t realised that was a crime.”

“Because it isn’t.”

“Arthur,” Merlin’s heart was beating so fast in anticipation that he was starting to feel lightheaded, “just tell me. I’m going to find out anyway.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, walking away without sparing him a second glance or waiting for him to catch up. “Well, since you’re so worried about _Mordred_ , you’ll be happy to know that he’ll be fine, as long as I keep my word.”

Merlin almost tripped over a root. He was suddenly, infinitely glad Arthur hadn’t seen him make a fool of himself. “Does that mean-“

“I said I’d think about it.” The other cut him off with annoyance. “I can’t just do whatever I please. I’ll have to consult with Guinevere and my counsellors first.”

“But I thought being able to do as you please was the whole point of being king.”

This time, Arthur did turn around to shoot him a glare. Despite the brevity of their interaction, Merlin could almost feel the hatred coming off of him in waves and chilling him to his bones.

“I’m kidding.” He said, trying to regain his footing. “Arthur, I was just kidding. Why won’t you talk to me?”

“ _Merlin_!” Arthur growled, exasperated. “When we’re back in Camelot, I’ll be happy to let you explain everything from the  very beginning, because – there is _so much_ I don’t understand. But until we get there, please, for once in your life, shut up.”

So Merlin did.

He wasn’t sure how to take it, if he should be glad Arthur was giving him a chance or worry about the many ways he could still waste it.

It wasn’t acceptance; not really, not yet. But when it came to Arthur, the benefit of the doubt was all he could ask for. He trailed right behind him, dread and a strange kind of warmth churning his insides. “Thank you.”

Arthur just dismissed him with the wave of a hand. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for Mordred.”

The rest of the walk home was eerily silent.

* * *

As soon as the door to Arthur’s chambers slammed open, Arthur’s sword was casually thrown on his bed and his belt unbuckled and dropped to the floor. Merlin subconsciously stepped forward to help him out of his chainmail, but he was brusquely reminded of the reality of their situation when Arthur recoiled and went on, with more than a little struggle, to take it off himself, getting his head stuck in the process.

Merlin cringed at the whole thing. He also briefly wondered, as Arthur was proving perfectly willing  to dress himself, whether he had Merlin do it for him out of laziness or spite.

With a frustrated growl and a final pull that almost tore off a lock of blonde hair, Arthur ripped the chainmail from his body and threw it carelessly on the bed, right over the sword’s sharp end. Merlin groaned at the thought of having to clean that metal tangle later.

Arthur crossed his arms over his now very visible shirt. “Well, you choose now to be quiet?”

Merlin stood awkwardly in front of him, his arms hanging helplessly at his sides. “Where should I start?”

“The beginning would be great. And for God’s sake, Merlin, don’t just stand there like an idiot. Take a seat.”

And, as if to show him how it was done, he pulled back a chair and sat down, elbows up on the table and hands propping up his head.

Merlin followed suit, trying to shake off the feeling that he’d just been brought in for interrogation.“I’ve had magic my whole life. It’s not something I was taught, or that I actively sought out. And just like me, so many sorcerers never had a choice either.”

“They didn’t choose to be born with magic,” Arthur agreed, “but they did have a choice as to how they used it.”

“I never hurt anyone.” Only that was not quite true. “Not on purpose, at least. I was just a kid. I had no means to keep my magic under check until I met Gaius, nor to put it to good use until…until I met you.”

“You saved me from a falling chandelier.” Arthur recalled, thinking back to the very night that had led Merlin into Arthur’s service. “How did you do it?”

“I stopped time,” Merlin breathed, feeling the thrill that came with finally being able to be honest with Arthur, “trying to get to you.”

“Why? You hated me. You’d tried to kill me.”

“I found you pompous and arrogant.” Merlin corrected. “That doesn’t mean I would’ve let you die.”

“So, do you just go around risking your life for the first person you meet?”

Merlin had no idea if Arthur expected him to confirm his suspicions or not. He had no idea what would make him happiest. “I do, actually. I _did._ I was pretty reckless at the time.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow in such a typical Gaius fashion that Merlin felt the slightest bit unnerved by it. “What changed?”

“I was forced to grow out of it. To better protect you.”

“But why _me_?” He pushed. “Why not focus all your energies on protecting Morgana, or – or serving another kingdom where magic was accepted?” Arthur shook his head, as if not quite believing what was right in front of him. As if trying and failing to see Merlin again. “You were more powerful than I ever was, yet you resigned yourself to a life of servitude. I want to know why.”

Merlin had always liked to think that he could read Arthur like an open book, recognise the hard lines of his face and pick apart the strands of weakness he so often hid from the world. That they’d become so close, he and Arthur, that following Arthur’s train of thought before he’d even started contemplating it should’ve been nothing short of a requirement, and knowing Arthur’s mind better than his own was just one of the scary side effects that came from his magic’s obsession with being all over Arthur all the time.

This, however, was the first time Merlin’s magic hit a wall, and with it came the painful knowledge that, if Arthur really was so afraid of him to shut him out completely, there was no way for Merlin to see Arthur, nor to know where he wanted the conversation to go.

Being cut off from him for the first time in years brought him back to _before_ \- to the emptiness, the loneliness, the void that begged to be filled. And it suddenly wasn’t so hard to remember how to string words together.

“It’s my destiny.” He whispered to the empty room. Arthur was staring at him, giving no indication that he’d heard him at all, but Merlin kept speaking. “I was born for this. For you. There’s no way I could’ve avoided it.”

Arthur lifted his head, eyes slightly glazed over. “What do you mean?”

Merlin took a deep breath. “The day you threw me in a cell, I heard someone calling me in my sleep. I tried to ignore it for _days_ , but it just wouldn’t stop. So I eventually followed it down to the dungeons –“

“The Great Dragon.” Arthur realised with a dejected sigh. “Of course. What kind of lies did he feed you to be let out?”

“They weren’t lies.” Arthur glared at him, the same fire that had burned houses to the ground now burning in his eyes. “ _Yes,_ his intentions weren’t exactly pure, but he knew better ways to manipulate me than to lie to me. Everything he told me about our destiny, about me having to protect you so you could grow into the Once and Future King – it was all true.”

Arthur furrowed his eyebrow in thought. “The once and future king. You called me that once. Several people have, actually. I could never figure out what they meant.”

“It means you’re destined to become the greatest king this world has ever known,” Merlin eagerly explained. “That you’re going to be the one to bring peace to the land. And it was my job to guide you.”

The second Arthur’s fingers stopped tapping the wood, Merlin knew he’d said the wrong thing.

“You had to protect me so I could become king.”

“Yes.”

“And maybe lift the ban off magic?”

 He could be scarily intuitive when Merlin least needed him to. “So the dragon told me.”

“So you were only my friend,” Arthur elaborated, “because some fire breathing lizard told you that you could get something out of it.”

“He wasn’t the only one,” Merlin reminded him, before realising his attempt at cheering Arthur up was actually disastrous. “No, wait. That’s not what I meant-“

“ _Was I_ ,” Arthur raised his voice, “or was I not just an assignment to you?”

Merlin shook his head. “You must be out of your mind if you think there’s anything in the world I would care about more than you.”

Something melted in Arthur’s eyes, and Merlin wished he could scream.

_I felt it too._

He wished Arthur could somehow get into his head and reach for his thoughts the way Merlin always reached for his.

_You weren’t wrong._

“Arthur? Merlin?” The door opened and closed behind Gwen, the rustling of her gown announcing her arrival, forcing Merlin to look away from Arthur. A large smile plastered on Gwen’s face when she saw she’d been right. “I thought I’d heard you come in. Is everything all right?”

It was clear, by the way she glanced worriedly between the two of them, that she didn’t think so. Merlin blamed it on Arthur’s tightened jaw and his own teary eyes.

Merlin felt Arthur’s gaze burning a hole into his head. He didn’t have to look at him to know what he was asking.  

Gwen blinked when neither of them bothered to reply. “Arthur? Is something wrong with Mordred? Did the Disir refuse to heal him?”

It was only when Arthur finally looked back at his wife that Merlin started breathing again. “They agreed to heal him,” Arthur murmured, “so long as I agreed to lift the ban on magic.”

Merlin kept his head down, his eyes squeezed shut. He wouldn’t look. Hearing would be enough.

And what he heard was lots of pain, and apprehension, and…pity. “Oh, Arthur. I’m so sorry. I knew how fond you were of him.”

“No, Guinevere.” Arthur sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Mordred will live. I gave them my word.”

Gwen didn’t speak for a long, long time. When she did, it was with a tinge of exasperation and slight irritation. “You feel responsible for your men’s lives. I understand that. But when will you learn that you can’t save everyone, not at your own expense-“

“They gave me a warning, Guinevere. They gave me a chance because they thought I could be reasoned with. They’ve been very clear what would happen to me _and_ to my people if I didn’t redeem myself.”

“You’ve got nothing to be redeemed for.” Gwen insisted, pulling back a chair to properly join their conversation. “You have no choice but to wage war on magic if such a weapon is wielded against you.”

“ _Magic_ didn’t do anything to me. People did.” Merlin finally raised his head at that. The room suddenly got as quiet as if he’d accidentally frozen time. “Some of them sorcerers, others just power-hungry. And I cannot keep persecuting good men to get rid of those who give magic a bad name.”

“Good men will understand why you do it,” Gwen said, “won’t they?”

“Possibly.” Arthur admitted, clearly forcing his eyes away from Merlin. “But they still deserve to be free as much as the next person. Otherwise, hatred and ignorance will burn this kingdom to the ground.”

“Arthur, when you speak of good men-“ Merlin kept his eyes on Arthur, not even glancing at Gwen, but that didn’t keep him from feeling her gaze on him as she spoke. “Are you talking about anyone in particular?”

Merlin didn’t know if he was one of the good men. He didn’t know if Arthur thought that about him, either. But there had been a time, before Merlin hardened Arthur’s heart to magic, when Arthur speaking up for sorcerers would’ve been just natural progression of his character. Now, he could see how the idea of Arthur openly defending and accepting the very same thing that had taken away both of his parents would be shocking to Gwen. It was clear, in the way his mouth kept opening and closing around empty sounds, that it was shocking to Arthur as well.

Merlin had no choice but to cough, drawing attention to himself. He regretted it the second Arthur and Gwen’s heads turned back to him. “I’ll explain everything.”

Arthur looked like he didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified for the conversation that was to come. Merlin never had been good at clearing things up – but Arthur had never been able to lie, which only left him one safe option. “Close the door, Merlin.”

Merlin didn’t  stand up, but Gwen almost jumped out of her chair when the door slammed closed behind her anyway.

* * *

It took one more day of arguing and speech-writing – both Merlin’s doing – for Arthur and Guinevere to call an official council meeting.

Gwen had surprisingly taken the news of Merlin’s magic quite well, even going so far as to squeeze the life out of him in what was meant to be a comforting hug, but try as she might, she could never get Arthur on her side. Newly an advocate for magic users rights, he still refused to communicate with Merlin on an actual speaking basis, save from the occasional mockery and dejected eye roll whenever Merlin tried to make suggestions that Arthur would later praise Gwen for, such as keeping Mordred’s involvement in Arthur’s sudden change of heart under tight wraps, so as not to turn the young knight into a scapegoat for magic haters. And even though neither Arthur nor Gwen mentioned it, Merlin knew the same would be done for him.

“I take full responsibility for any consequence that will come from my decision,” Arthur swore to an audience of outraged courtiers and baffled knights, “and I can assure you that I’ll do everything in my power for Camelot to stay the safe haven it’s always been.”

Incoherent mumbling started all over the Round Table - most of the complaints being about Camelot’s inability to go through one day without anyone being brutally murdered as it was, minus one voice rising above the others to remind Arthur of all the terrible ways magic had already compromised their lives.

“You weren’t there for the Great Purge, Arthur Pendragon,” spoke Geoffrey of Monmouth in an unexpected display of courage, “because if you had been, you wouldn’t be asking us to stand in front of the very same people who slaughtered us and hand over our forgiveness.”

“No one’s asking you to hand over anything,” Arthur said. “The guilty will still be punished, but those who wish to practice magic freely may do so without consequence.”

Leon raised a timid hand. “Magic corrupts, Arthur. Don’t you remember what happened to Morgana? What happened to Camelot whenever magic was involved? The more we let it roam free, the harder it will be to keep it under check.”

Arthur didn’t miss a beat. “Magic is only as corruptive as we let it be. For the longest time, it’s been associated with the most evil deeds man can think of, triggering feelings of inadequacy and isolation within sorcerers. But if we accept it, if we teach sorcerers to use it for good-“

“If we respect them and don’t give them a reason to fight back,” Guinevere interceded. Arthur nodded, thankful for the addition.

“But we’re walking a dangerous path.” Leon said. “Even back before the Purge, the kingdom was falling apart. What’s going to happen now that we’ve actively managed to turn every single magic user against us? Do you think it’ll be that easy to gain their trust?”

“You talk as if magic users were all embittered, nasty creatures, Leon. And as if none of that was our fault in the first place,” Arthur pointed out. “But was it not magic users who saved you with the Cup of Life?”

Leon jolted upright at the reminder. “Druids, actually.”

“Same thing. And Gwaine, weren’t you healed and looked after by a creature of magic just three months ago, in Ismere?”

“The ethereal pinhead?” So Gwaine had started to call it, for lack of a better name. “It was kind to me.”

Arthur’s eyes shone with pride. At himself or at the shocked whispers these revelations were bringing to life, Merlin couldn’t be sure; they soon shrank considerably when they stared straight past him. “Merlin.”

The whole Round Table turned around to look at him, quietly tucked in a corner, but Arthur, who’d called on him, never did. As a result, Merlin spent the next three seconds willing his hands steady and the cold sweat back into his body.

Arthur waited an extraordinary amount of time to satisfy everyone’s curiosity.

“When you were attacked by the Dorocha, wasn’t it water spirits who healed you? _Vilia_ , I believe Sir Lancelot called them.”

Merlin finally allowed himself to breathe again. He’d had no idea Lancelot had spoken to Arthur about what happened in their little quest, but he was immensely grateful for it now. “Absolutely, sire.”

Arthur turned back to his audience like that proved his point. “I myself have been saved by magic more times than I’d like to admit – and I don’t even know the full extent of it, yet.”

 “Actually, Arthur, none of us knows.” Gwen seemed to suddenly realise, her eyes drifting to Merlin for a split second. “Magic might’ve helped us all more often than we think.”

“All right, this is _madness_.” Elyan pushed himself off the table. “Now you’re just going on pure assumption. Not all sorcerers are as kind as you’re making them out to be, and you’re going to get us all killed.”

“If many of them were willing to help us before, is it really that far-fetched to think others would as well, if given the chance?” His sister fought back.

Merlin couldn’t help but flinch at the redundancy of it all, at the feeling that, if Uther had been standing behind the chair, he’d have thrown Elyan in jail, like he once had Morgana, and had him executed for treason. Of course, Elyan now benefitted from being the Queen’s brother, but Arthur had always encouraged and valued freedom of speech in every corner of the realm, including his meeting room – which made the whole process of educating people about magic so much longer and harder, and constantly pushed Arthur to second-guess himself.

Even now, with his most trusted advisors yelling at him, Merlin could see Arthur’s confidence wavering, pride turning to horror by the time Geoffrey spoke up again.

“If your father were here,” he stated loudly enough to shut everyone else up, “and saw you standing up for the very same thing that caused his death, he’d be so disappointed.”

Arthur’s fists clenched, and Merlin held his breath. He’d watched Arthur go off the rails enough times to know it would only end up in tears, self-hatred, and a couple of plates being thrown for good measure, but never before had anyone dared use Uther’s ghost to hurt Arthur, and Merlin had always wholeheartedly supported that unspoken rule.

Now Arthur uneasily fixed his cloak, ignoring Gwen’s attempts to do it herself, and stood up, pushing his chair back. “I'm not a tyrant. I can’t force you to agree with my choices.” Though his tone said he wished otherwise. “All I’m asking is that you think about it and then decide whether or not to trust me.”

And just like that, he turned his back on the Round Table and stormed off, mumbling a “Council dismissed” over his shoulder as the guards stepped aside to let him pass. Guinevere followed suit, running after him in what looked like painfully high heels.

The remaining three quarters of the table flocked to Merlin like honeybees to a flower before the king and queen were even out of the room, asking questions he couldn’t answer about how Arthur was and how badly he’d been hurt and if he’d ever come to understand their point of view. It wasn’t uncommon for Arthur’s knights and advisors to defer to Merlin in his absence, as he’d proven time and time again to know Arthur’s heart as well as his own – but that was before he’d shut him out. Merlin had spent the whole meeting reaching for tendrils of Arthur’s mind, trying to read into the beats of his heart, and he’d come up empty-handed.

“I didn’t mean to anger him.” A visibly flushed Geoffrey had the decency to say. “I know how concerned Arthur is with his father’s approval. I was merely trying to help.”

_You didn’t_ , Merlin wanted to reply. “He’s not angry with you.” He said instead, hoping it was the truth. “None of you. He’d taken this scenario into consideration. I-I’ll go find out what’s wrong with him.”

“Merlin.” Percival grabbed his wrist to hold him back. “He listens to you. Please, try to reason with him. You’ve lost just as much to magic as any of us.”

Merlin didn’t have the heart to stay and talk to him about how right he was about that last part. He just nodded as he took his arm out of Percival’s grasp and sped out of the room, right up the stairs.

Gwen had just come out into the hallway and closed Arthur’s door behind her, her frown as she saw him mirroring her next words. “He won’t talk to me.”

“I’d figured.” Merlin sighed, making his way down the corridor where Gwen stood. “This is all my fault. To put this weight on his shoulders –“

“Arthur’s more than capable of taking whatever you throw at him, Merlin. He’s stronger than you think.” Gwen reassured him. “He just needs some time.”

“I know this must be upsetting for him. And- and for you as well.”

With a grimace, Gwen leaned against the wall. “More like liberating, actually. It did come as a surprise, but it finally explained everything that was off about you. You weren’t exactly discreet over the years, Merlin.”

“Yet, none of you figured it out. So I must be doing something right.” Merlin allowed himself to smirk, and to be immensely relieved when she smiled back.

“And however many questions I still want to ask, I can’t imagine you ever doing anything to hurt Arthur _or_ Camelot.” She elaborated. “I’m sure Arthur would come to see that too, if you only talked to him.”

“I want to, Gwen,” he admitted, his world narrowing around Arthur’s closed door until he could see nothing else. “But he hates me now. What I asked him to do was too much for one person to bear.”

“Oh, but he’s not alone.” Gwen gathered her skirt  in her hands, preparing to take her leave. “He was _never_ alone, was he?”

Merlin couldn’t pinpoint why, but when she smiled at him again he felt even more unsettled than before. Perhaps she reminded him of Kilgharrah, with his cryptic grins and talk of destinies and coins, but more likely than not his fear had just got the best of him now that he was one step closer to a conversation he’d been dreading.

He let himself in, as per usual, without knocking. Arthur was staring pensively out of the window, as he always did when something was troubling him, and gave no indication of having heard him until Merlin cleared his throat. “Arthur.”

Arthur’s whole body stiffened, but he didn’t make a move. “Ah, Merlin. Just the person I was looking for.”

_Hard to find someone when you’re locked up in your chambers._ “Glad to be of help, sire?”

He hadn’t meant for it to come out like a question, but Arthur seemed to find it funny – hilarious, even. But unlike Gwen’s smile, Arthur’s laughter had no real amusement to it, no amiability; it was a harsh jangle that chilled Merlin to the bone. It was only when he turned around that Merlin could look him in the eyes, and he saw only hatred.

“Merlin, would you mind telling me why you killed my father?”

His first instinct after recovering from the shock was to deny. “I didn’t.”

“You know, what Geoffrey said, about my father being killed by magic – not that I needed a reminder – brought back memories of the sorcerer who killed him. I finally figured out what was so familiar about him.”

“You’re wrong.” Merlin repeated, the lump in his throat preventing him from sounding believable. “I swear it wasn’t my doing.”

Arthur sneered. “Oh, so you weren’t the old sorcerer, then.”

“ _I was._ But I didn’t kill your father _.”_

“He died right after you cast a spell on him.”

“That was all Morgana and Agravaine.” Merlin rushed to explain. “They hung a magic medallion around your father’s neck, one that amplified and reversed the power of every spell tenfold. I had no idea, Arthur, I had no idea but they knew what I was going to do –“

Arthur threw his arms up in defeat. “See? I can’t even tell what’s a truth or a lie when it comes to you. Am I supposed to believe you knew all this, and you never thought to tell me?”

Merlin had thought about it. It wouldn’t have compromised his cover, and maybe, just maybe, it would have redeemed Dragoon in Arthur’s eyes. He would have seen that there were truly good sorcerers in this world, and for them he would have kept his promise. There was no actual reason to keep Arthur in the dark, but he’d managed to find one anyway. “Would that have changed anything? Uther was still killed by magic. You’d never trust it again. I was wasting my breath.”

“Wasting your-“ Arthur seemed out of words. “ _God_ , Merlin. You only ever speak at the worst time and then keep your mouth shut over matters of the utmost importance. You dare make assumptions after hiding the truth from me for years, and- and making me feel like an idiot-“

“I was trying to protect you.”

“ _No, you weren’t_!” Arthur suddenly screamed, making Merlin flinch. “You were only protecting yourself. You knew Agravaine was a traitor, and you did nothing.”

“I _did_ tell you, remember?” To that day, it was still one of Merlin’s most frustrating memories, and he’d been through some pretty frustrating times since he’d come to Camelot. “You decided not to listen because I had no proof.”

Arthur went on as if Merlin hadn’t spoken. “And _Morgana_. You knew about her, too, didn’t you? All along. And instead of talking about it with me, so I could do something before it was too late-“

“I couldn’t. She was threatening me. If I’d spoken, she would have had me killed.”

“You didn’t trust me enough to prevent her from doing it?”

Merlin wished he could explain that not only would Arthur’s sword-fighting abilities be entirely useless against Morgana’s magic, but asking for Arthur’s help hadn’t even been on his list of priorities back then. “ _She_ wouldn’t have done anything. Uther would.”

Arthur crossed his arms, realisation dawning on him. “She knew about your magic?”

“I can only thank the Gods that she didn’t. Otherwise, nothing would have stopped her from taking me out. She still doesn’t, by the way, so I’d appreciate if you didn’t let it slip.”

“Merlin,” Arthur was growing impatient by the second. “What did you do?”

Oh, Merlin hated this truth ordeal. Maybe Arthur really was onto something, and Merlin had only used him as an excuse to postpone it for so long. “I poisoned her.”

Arthur swallowed. “After you found out she was a traitor?”

Merlin knew that’s what Arthur was hoping, and there was nothing he wished more than to be able to give him that relief. “Before.”

Arthur looked on the verge of throwing up, screaming, or fainting, and it bothered Merlin to no end that he wasn’t able to tell which one it would be until he stumbled into his bed and put his head in his hands as if in the middle of a chronic headache. Merlin spared him the trouble of asking questions.

“Remember when Morgause tried to attack with the knights of Medhir, and she cast a sleeping spell on Camelot that only Morgana was immune to? Well, turns out there was a reason.”

Arthur had been glaring at Merlin for so long that creases were starting to form on the corner of his eyes. “And that is?”

“She was the source.” He explained in a ‘duh’ tone. “If I hadn’t stopped her, you would have been killed.”

“And you never even considered the possibility that _maybe_ she didn’t even know about it? Or that you could, _you know_ , talk her out of it?”

“There was no time.” Merlin insisted. “You were going to die. The dragon had warned me about Morgana, but I’d ignored his advice until it was too late.”

“And by that, you mean you should’ve poisoned her sooner?”

“I’d never thought she was a threat. She was so kind, so compassionate – I didn’t think she could hurt anyone.  But when she found out about her magic she was so scared, and all she needed was someone to tell her that nothing was wrong with her. I could’ve helped her, but I didn’t, so she turned to Morgause and I’m so sorry, Arthur, I’m so sorry-“

Arthur just watched as Merlin sank to his knees, gasping for air. It was hard to be sure through a layer of tears, but Arthur’s expression didn’t change a bit, and Merlin thought he deserved it. He deserved every ounce of hate coming his way, because Morgana was his fault, and Mordred was his fault, and Uther’s death was his fault but somehow, all he could bring himself to feel sad about was Arthur’s silence.

“You’re the reason she turned on us.” Arthur repeated. Merlin just nodded. “And you indirectly killed my father. Let me guess, you were behind the dragon’s unleashing, too?”

“He was withholding information I needed. I had to swear on my mother that I would free him.”

“I honestly don’t know what’s more disturbing.” Arthur grimaced. “The fact that you’re a murderer, or that you seem to come up with more and more excuses on the spot.”

“They’re not excuses.” Merlin almost considered grabbing Arthur’s hand in plea, but he saw Arthur flinch as soon as he leant forward, as if horrified by all the blood that could never be washed from his hands. “I realise I can never be forgiven for what I’ve done. I don’t seek forgiveness. I just want you to know what I was doing it for, so that my efforts won’t be in vain.”

“For me.” Arthur shuddered. “You did all of that for me. So I could be king and play out your little fantasies of a magical Albion.”

“So you could _live_ ,” Merlin said, “and want to do it yourself. If you want to execute me for that, I don’t care. As long as you’re safe – as long as you don’t let this fall on Camelot.”

Arthur was king now. He’d accepted magic. When talking about their destiny, Kilgharrah had never mentioned anything past that point, so that must mean Merlin’s job was done - if he were meant to die shortly after, no one would’ve told him anyway. He was only sorry he wouldn’t be there to guide Arthur and see the world he built for himself, but now that Gwen knew, she’d do anything in her power to keep him on the right track. That gave him some comfort.

What could’ve been Merlin’s last thoughts were interrupted by Arthur’s dismissive grunt. “Don’t be stupid, Merlin. I’ve been blaming you for not opening up to me ever since this conversation started, I’m not going to kill you now that you finally did.” He narrowed his eyes. “Though I had to pry it out of you, so you didn’t _technically_ tell me anything.”

Merlin hadn’t heard anything past _I’m not going to kill you,_ but he was pretty sure there was supposed to be a ‘but’ there somewhere. “But you’re never going to forgive me.”

Arthur didn’t shake his head as Merlin expected, but he looked more gutted than Merlin had ever seen him. He didn’t know what to do with Merlin, either. “My own life was taken away from me because of _you_. _You_ let people that I loved die so I could live, under the misguided impression that I would somehow be thankful for it. And now you’ve got everything you wanted, everything you kept me alive for, but I had no choice in this – you made all the choices for me. So tell me, Merlin, how can I ever-“

He made this choked, gutted noise at the back of his throat that Merlin had only ever heard from him when he thought no one could hear him, and he suddenly regretted all the times he’d wished Arthur showed weakness more often. He understood now why he didn't; the whole kingdom would fall to its knees just as Merlin had at such a sight.

Without thinking, his hands trembling, Merlin reached up to wipe one of the tears at the corner of Arthur’s eyes, as if catching it before it fell would make it so it never existed in the first place. His fingers slid down Arthur’s cheek in a tentatively comforting caress, but they only got as far as his jaw before becoming wet again.

Merlin looked up at Arthur, worried that he’d upset him even more. His eyes spoke a silent question that his mouth turned into a whisper. “Do you want me to go?”

He was terrified of Arthur’s rejection, as he always had been, but because of him Arthur was in such an emotionally fragile state of mind that he’d let himself be comforted by Morgana herself. Invading his personal space now felt a little like taking advantage of him. His fingers lingered on Arthur’s skin a moment too long before letting go and being caught mid-retreat by Arthur’s own. Merlin’s heart jumped in his throat when Arthur leant into his touch rather than pushing him away.

“I think you leaving the room won’t fix anything, Merlin.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Merlin breathed out, forcing his chest to rise and fall steadily. “I meant go _go_. Leave Camelot and never come back. Do you want that?”

Arthur opened his mouth to answer, but he paused, pretending to be considering the situation as a whole rather than letting his sobs subside. He tightened his grip on Merlin’s hand. “No. No, I don’t.”

Merlin nodded, unsure of what to say. A lot still hung in the air between them, but it didn’t seem like the right time to bring it up. It never was the right time.

Arthur kept talking. “Do you know how much I wish I could hate you? If you were anyone else, I’d have you exiled at the very least.”

“That sounds terrible.” Merlin allowed himself a tentative smile. “You’d have no one to dress you up in the morning, or clean your armour.”

“Or save my arse when I’m not looking,” Arthur admitted, a hint of a blush creeping up under Merlin’s fingers. “Though I _will_ still make you pay for lying to me and screwing everything up.”

Merlin scooted closer to him, their foreheads now close enough to lean together. “Not _everything_. You’re still here.” He pressed himself against Arthur, inhaling his scent, and he begged, for the thousandth time that day, to be let in, because not knowing what Arthur was thinking was slowly driving him mad.

“Was it worth it?”

He didn’t even have to ask. “Yes.”

Arthur’s breath ruffled Merlin’s hair. “Merlin-“ Arthur murmured, eyelids dropping closed at their sudden proximity. “What happened after the chandelier?”

Merlin struggled to remember. It had been far too long since he’d last recapped all the reasons Arthur ought to be grateful to him; partly because he’d given up on his hopes of Arthur ever finding out, but mostly because he was past the point of wanting, or deserving, recognition. But Arthur was staring at him, begging for a reason not to hate him - if not to forgive him, then to help him sleep at night - and Merlin’s desire to lift that burden from Arthur’s shoulders drove him forward to press his lips against the corner of his mouth.

Arthur went stiff underneath him. Merlin could tell he hadn’t expected him to come so close – he’d aimed for his jaw, _damn it_ – but Merlin liked the way blood was rushing at his fingertips and he couldn’t see any reason to move away.

_I did it all for you,_ Merlin’s restless hands spelled out on Arthur’s skin. _Because you’re worth everything._

“There was the Valiant thing.” Merlin mumbled, pulling back just slightly to nuzzle Arthur’s cheek. “Remember? You wouldn’t believe me when I told you he used magic, so I made snakes spring out of his shield, for all to see.”

Arthur’s eyes twitched under his eyelids. “That was _you_?”

“Mmh.” Merlin brushed locks of hair away from Arthur’s eyes so he could press another kiss there. “I also defeated the Afanc. You know, that creature poisoning the water vault under the castle.”

“Uh- no?” Arthur’s utter confusion set Merlin off into fits of giggles. “That was me. I set it on fire.”

“Which never would’ve worked, unless I brought on the wind. The Afanc could only be destroyed by both.”

 “Then what did you need me for?”

“To hold the torch _while I did magic_ so you could take the credit for it.” Merlin patiently explained, expecting Arthur to look at least somewhat offended.

It wasn’t until Merlin revealed that it hadn’t been Lancelot who killed the griffin, and that it was indeed how Lancelot had found out about his magic, that Arthur snorted: “Lancelot knew and _I_ didn’t?”

Raining kisses down his neck and throat proved to be the best way to shut him up, and one that Merlin made sure to make a mental note of. But Merlin hadn’t expected to be overcome by a feeling of sudden clarity, like lightning strikes igniting sparks and memories he thought had been lost. He’d thought kissing Arthur would cloud his judgment, fog his mind, but the more his mouth got acquainted with Arthur’s skin, the more painfully aware he grew of the blood flowing into his palms and back, of Arthur’s frantic breaths, of the softness of Arthur’s bed under his knee. He paid great care so that no sliver of skin was left untouched, no inch left unworshipped.

“I killed Edwin.” He went on undeterred, pausing to mouth at Arthur’s jaw. “And Sophia. Turns out she was a Sidhe trying to suck out your soul.”

“ _Oh.”_ Arthur’s sudden moan made Merlin’s eyes roll to the back of his head. “Good to know.”

_Gwen and Lancelot didn’t betray you. It was a magical bracelet._

_That was really your mother you saw._

_I made the ball of light._

So many things to get to, and his newly obsessive self was hellbent on chronological order. “And I bargained my life for yours on the Isle of the Blessed,” he breathed out, “when you were bitten by the Questing Beast. If things had gone my way, I wouldn’t have been around to cause so much trouble.”

Arthur suddenly went very silent. He never had understood how he’d been able to survive, but _of course_ it had been magic, since the moment of his conception. He didn’t ask how Merlin managed to still be here, because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. No doubt Merlin had done many, many horrible things for his sake, and Arthur wanted to own up to each and every one of them – just not all at the same time.

Merlin had been too busy to read any of that on Arthur’s face. He’d long learnt to discern Arthur’s mind from his own, but now he welcomed it, embraced it, got more and more entangled with Arthur’s thoughts and feelings and images until the two of them didn’t exist anymore, and they were both just fragments of themselves fitting into something bigger, something better, something  else.

Merlin could barely celebrate being in Arthur’s mind again, because Arthur grabbed the back of Merlin’s head and pushed him down and over him – their mouths clumsily bumping into each other, Arthur’s mouth hungrily reaching for Merlin’s.

It took one moment. Just one moment for their lips to slide against one another, for Merlin to lose himself in his Arthur haze, for his knee to slip in between Arthur’s legs - and too soon Merlin pulled away, his lips still tingling and aching and not far enough away from Arthur’s face to make a difference.

“Arthur.” He whispered, because it was all that he could manage. “Gwen.”

Arthur didn’t seem to understand what he was talking about for a few seconds. Then realisation dawned on him, and Merlin thought he’d never seen him smile so wide. How nice it was, Merlin thought, for both of them, to be troubled by problems other than fear of rejection or execution. “She knew before I did.” His shoulders lifted off the bed in a nonchalant shrug. “I denied it, but she saw right through me. And she’s been pushing me to do this ever since. She was fine with it.”

Before Merlin could ask for more explanations, Arthur pulled him in again – and Merlin couldn’t find it in him to keep talking, or thinking, or doing anything that didn’t involve reality drifting away in a puff of smoke.

* * *

Despite the Disir’s promises, Mordred’s condition never improved. Much like Arthur’s mood, it only got worse by the day - heartbeat slowing down, breaths coming undone, blood draining from his face.

In the wake of this news, Arthur started spending a considerable amount of time just pacing by Mordred’s bedside – back and forth, back and forth – and being force-fed by either Merlin or Gwen when he lacked the will to go back to his chambers, which considerably slowed down the whole process of legalising magic. Officially, Arthur had already lifted the ban, against more than a few knights' and council members’ better judgment, and he’d managed to further his agenda inside the castle to the point where almost everyone was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he had enough on his plate as it was without having to deal with bitter townspeople and protesters, too. They gathered every morning under Arthur’s window to yell their overtly rude and offensive opinions, unaware that Arthur was temporarily residing in Gaius’s chambers and that he was far too distraught to pay them, or anyone else, any mind.

Merlin and Gwen had even managed to sneak out some food more than once, without Arthur ever noticing, so Merlin could fill her in on the whole Mordred situation and on why he constantly sounded more worried about Arthur not honouring his word than one of Arthur’s most cherished knights being literally on the brink of death.

“If Mordred dies, Arthur might never trust magic again,” he ranted. “He’ll think the Disir have tricked him. He won’t understand they acted in his best interests. “

“Oh, Merlin.” Gwen sighed and grabbed the scone he’d been about to lay his hands on. “I believe Arthur’s just sick of other people wanting to decide what’s best for him.”

“But if they didn’t, he would be lost,” Merlin protested.

“Maybe so. But then he’d only have himself to blame.”

Merlin disagreed.  He’d never been one to stand aside and watch others dig their graves if he could help it - especially when it came to Arthur, whose poor judgment had proved dangerous time and time again. It was the whole reason Merlin had been assigned to him and he meant to carry his task to fulfilment; if he could take on some of Arthur’s guilt on the way there, well, all the better.

“Keep coddling him like that and he’ll never learn from his mistakes, Merlin. Because they won’t be his to make.”

“Hey, give that back!” Merlin tried to bat Gwen’s hand away when it closed around the last biscuit, but Gwen was already laughing, her mouth full of  stolen goodness. “You’re just trying to distract me.”

“Relax. We can get more from the royal kitchens, remember?”

Merlin shook his head. Not that he disliked being able to get free food, but it wasn’t as much fun now that all Gwen had to do was ask. “I miss the times we’d have to sneak in and steal a plate under Audrey’s nose.”

Gwen smiled at that. “We’d always ask Morgana to cause a distraction, and she’d pretend to be annoyed about it.”

“And then she’d walk in the kitchen and start throwing a tantrum about her chicken being undercooked to give us time to get away.”

“Every single time.” A lot could be said about Morgana, but creativity had never been part of her. She’d always been convincing and threatening enough not to need it. “She was such a good actress Uther himself was brought in to investigate the cook’s skills.”

Their laughter danced across the courtyard and bounced off statues and columns to soar higher and higher, reaching innocent passers-by who dropped their daily activities to satisfy their curiosity. More than anything, Merlin envied all of them, who went about their days thinking Morgana had always been evil and treacherous because they’d never known otherwise. It would’ve been much easier to see her as an enemy if she hadn’t, once upon a time, been the cause of his happiness – if he hadn’t screwed everything up first.

Seeing the look on his face, Gwen’s laughter died down, but her voice was still mellow as honey and her hands comforting as ever when Merlin reached out for them. “Stop beating yourself up. There’s nothing you can do now.”

_I could’ve done something_ once. “She’s amassing an army, luring sorcerers from all over the kingdom.”

“Those sorcerers won’t have a reason to fight once the ban on magic is lifted.” Gwen reasoned, not even pretending to be surprised about Merlin paying more attention than he should during Arthur’s council meetings. “It’s what they want, right? It’s what Morgana wants. Maybe she’ll leave us alone.”

It was a vain hope, and they both knew it. “Lifting the ban won’t be enough for her, not anymore. She thinks her way is the only right way and she won’t be satisfied until she takes the throne.”

“She was always a stubborn thing.” Gwen mused. “It’s no wonder she and Uther wanted to kill each other all the time. Now that he’s dead, her new playthings are her former sleepover companions.”

To avoid falling into his self-deprecating ways again, he quickly changed the subject. “I know things are different for you now, but a sleepover doesn’t seem like such a bad idea right now. We haven’t had one in a while.”

“Oh, we have. And with the same person, too. Just not at the same time.”

That earned a chuckle from Merlin. “Well, we should think about it. Maybe Arthur can join us.”

Gwen waved that suggestion away. “We’ve been taking turns at sleeping in Arthur’s bed for weeks. He can be the one to buzz off for one night.”

Merlin recalled the first time he’d tried to broach the topic with her, and how scared he’d been. Despite Arthur’s many reassurances that Guinevere had suspected for _years,_ and that she’d been fully supportive when Arthur had come clean to her, Merlin couldn’t help but consider the chance that Arthur might’ve misunderstood, or possibly straight up lied to his face. He didn’t think Arthur could lie to him – both because Arthur was a terrible liar, and because Merlin would be able to see through him anyway – but in Merlin’s defence, he _had_ been too busy to pay close attention to him. If it turned out Merlin had been tricked, he had no doubt Gwen would understand.

But there had been no need for long, articulate apologies, because Gwen had interrupted him mid-rant and gently held his hands between hers. “Arthur loves me the way I need to be loved. He’ll love you the way you need, too.”

And it hadn’t sounded sad, or menacing, or even remotely as cold as Merlin expected her to be. Her smile was as warm as it had been on the day he’d met her, and her voice just as soothing - like coming home after a long time being at war. And though Merlin did feel like he’d been on the frontlines since he’d passed through the Camelot gates, he’d found people willing to stand by him and fight alongside him – even if only when he wasn’t looking. It gave him hope that things could, some day, change for the better.

Unfortunately, lots of things could still change for the worse.

Merlin couldn’t pretend the news of Mordred’s death a few days later hadn’t relieved him of a huge burden, not even in front of Gaius’s victimising eyebrow, but telling Arthur the truth about Mordred ended up sending him into a depressive state rather than lifting up his spirits, and in front of the sunken lines of Arthur’s face Merlin had to remind himself that this had been for Arthur’s good, that it was better for him to mourn than to be mourned. 

One day, Arthur would understand. One day, Arthur would wake up and look down at a healthy, peaceful kingdom and his memories of a far away time when he’d had to sacrifice a friend for the greater good would be forgotten.

The one worry that still plagued Merlin was the account of a mother who’d been taking a walk near the city walls when Mordred died. She’d brought her children out to play, under the watchful eyes of the Camelot guards, when an ear splitting cry had pierced the air, lifting up flocks of ravens in the sky. Like ravens those children had fled, ran back to their home in tears, and Arthur could’ve ignored the delusional tantrums of an overworked woman if the guards hadn’t backed up her side of the story.

“It was terrifying.” They’d all confirmed, in many different ways and using many different words. “All the more terrifying because it belonged to a human.”

“How can you be sure?” Arthur had asked, pacing back and forth as he did whenever he was confronted with a difficult situation. The throne stood behind him, golden in the sunlight coming from the windows, tall and untouched.

The guard that had been speaking had elbowed the one next to him in the ribs, wanting to pass on the burden onto someone else. The other had gulped, taken aback, and dropped his eyes to the floor. 

“Because we’ve heard it many times in battle, sire.” He’d stuttered after a moment’s hesitation. “It was Morgana’s.”

* * *

His name was Enda.

He was a sorcerer and a merchant who was reported for selling magicked goods at impossibly high prices, which resulted in an angry mob of people demanding their money back when their precious fruit and vegetables turned to dust as soon as they got home. By the time they’d gathered around the town market, shaking their fists at Enda the conman, he was nowhere to be found.

Arthur’s men cornered him as he was trying to escape through the woods, and forced him to give back all the money he’d stolen on threat of imprisonment. But Enda fought back, casting curse after fire spell that sent the knights flying and left one badly injured. There wasn’t much swords could do against magic, but they could still cut down a man.

Enda was killed when he tried to stab sir Percival, and the growing magical community, who had known better than to buy anything from the guy, was sent into a turmoil that Merlin and Arthur could only suppress through public apologies and generous contributions to Enda’s family, who had admittedly only survived up to that moment thanks to the income he provided.

When word got out, more than a few called out the injustice in Arthur’s actions, blaming him for taxes being too high and magic users being killed on his watch, but they were silenced by the many who’d felt like Enda had only reaped what he’d sown.

* * *

His name was Wilmaer and, according to bystanders, he hadn’t been doing anything wrong when two burly men had decided to approach him and beat him up. The guards patrolling the streets had easily managed to break up the fight, but Wilmaer had still limped to the castle, ribs bruised and a black eye eating away at his face, demanding justice and good medical treatment.

In the wake of Enda’s scandal, he was neither the first nor the last of a long line of sorcerers asking for Arthur’s protection, and in light of these not-so-unforeseen developments Merlin had been more than happy to keep his magic a secret for a little while longer, but the same could not be said for everyone who’d hoped Arthur would bring some change - that he’d care more, that they’d live better.

Change didn’t happen overnight, and Merlin knew it, but more and more sorcerers were leaving Camelot to join Morgana’s army, hoping she’d be the bringer of a better future. Arthur had confessed to Merlin, one of the nights it had been his turn to curl up next to him, that sometimes he thought the same.

Maybe Morgana was more fit for this job, he’d rambled. Maybe it was just easier to force someone to bend to your will than to get them to understand your point of view.

Merlin had only kissed his eyelids shut until they’d both dozed off.

* * *

Her name was Neas, and she was fighting to avenge her brother. Whether that was her true name or just an alias she went by to protect herself didn’t seem to matter as much when it was written on a grave.

It wasn’t clear how that had come to be, if she’d been stabbed in self-defence or cold blood, but opinions varied according to the amount of sparks one could shoot out of their palm. The townspeople had never passed up on an excuse to condemn magic users, so it didn’t come as a surprise to Arthur that she’d been labelled a ruthless, ungrateful monster before the day’s end.

But her comrades cried; they cried for Neas and for her brother and for the world they’d never get to see. They cried for Wilmaer who had almost been lost to them, and for Enda the conman who was just trying to feed his family. Had they known the whole story, maybe they would’ve cried for Merlin as well - for Emrys and his failure at the destiny he’d been promised – but it was Morgana who claimed them all, one by one, and lured them to her, and pitted them against the kingdom, and the person, who had promised bandages and come back with sharpened blades instead.

In the end, it was war they cried for, war they called aloud with swords raised and fire in their hearts – and war the protectors of Camelot were welcomed with, in a mountain pass halfway through to Morgana’s castle, on a plain Percival knew to be called Camlann.

* * *

Arthur and Merlin got there before anyone else, scouting the area before calling Camelot’s army forward. The Saxons were indeed already in battle formation, the tips of their spears shining in the first light of dawn, along with more Camelot civilians than Merlin was comfortable with: he could see Sherman, the kind-hearted shepherd whose magical daughter’s murderer had gone unpunished; Roxanne, who’d been thrown in jail for a crime she had not committed; even little Kaitlyn, who had mostly likely been tricked by Morgana into thinking Arthur had been responsible for her family’s death.

Merlin knew it to be untrue, but Arthur had lost so many nights of sleep over it that he couldn’t help but recognise that it had, in a way, been Arthur’s fault, if only for not having stopped Morgana before she got to Kaitlyn’s parents’ village. They’d sworn their loyalty to Arthur only a few days before, and Morgana had taken it upon herself to send a message to those who defied her; needless to say, Morgana had experienced no shortage of men in her ranks from that point forward.

“Picky crowd.” Merlin commented, looking down at the plain. Arthur, who’d been too lost in regret and self-hatred to notice Merlin staring at him, turned towards him, masking feelings he kept forgetting he didn’t need to hide. “Wanting everything right away the moment they see a glimmer of hope. Sad, really.”

Arthur sighed. “Can’t really blame them for growing impatient, seeing as they were hunted down for the past thirty years.”

“You were trying to change that.” Merlin tilted his head to get a better look at Arthur’s face and lovingly swept some locks of blonde hair behind his ear. “They didn’t give you a chance.”

“Or maybe they did, and I blew it. Honestly, Merlin, would _you_ say I did a good job?”

He didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”

“I did _nothing_ except lift the ban. Anyone else could’ve done it.” Merlin almost expected him to bat his hand away with annoyance, but Arthur’s arm just twitched, as if trying to fight that very same reflex. “It can’t be this the prophecies were leading up to. I can’t be the Once and Future King they spoke about because it just so happened that I had a right to the throne and basic common sense.”

Merlin grimaced. “Well, actually, common sense was sort of my field.”

Arthur looked just as offended as when he’d been denied flowers. “So what, did they just pick the most mellow of Camelot’s kings to be manipulated?”

“Hey now.” Merlin should’ve probably taken it as some kind of insult, but he and Arthur had argued about their shared destiny until they were red in the face, only to realise they’d both been played like puppets. Arthur held no grudge towards Merlin, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed anyone else pulling the strings on him. “You really didn’t make it easy on me.”

It was such an unexpected attempt at comforting that Arthur actually laughed. After all, battlefields weren’t exactly the place for pep talks. “Then I suppose asking you to stay put would be wasting my breath.”

“This is my mess too, Arthur,” Merlin reminded him. “I’m not going to leave you alone.”

It baffled Merlin how many times he’d told Arthur the exact same thing, and yet he still managed to act surprised. “You’ll stay with me?”

“Until you want me to.” He cradled Arthur’s face in his hands and closed his eyes, leaning down for a kiss. Arthur’s lips parted under his, and Merlin hoped he couldn’t feel the wetness on his cheeks. Despite Mordred being dead, despite having defeated the prophecy, that vision of Arthur being killed was still seared into his mind. All he wanted was to go back to two days before – to butterfly kisses and tangled limbs and whispered prayers. “And longer, if I can.”

Arthur didn’t ask Merlin why he was crying, and Merlin didn’t tell.

They broke away from the kiss to face their army, now gathered all wide-eyed in front of them. If any of the knights had wanted to ask the king why he’d been kissing his manservant or why the queen had stayed behind in her tent, they either decided to keep their silence or felt it was neither the time nor place for it.

Merlin briefly wondered, as Arthur’s men marched into battle, if any of them actually wanted to be there – if they were only fighting it because they’d sworn an oath, or if they still believed in the world Arthur meant to build. He used to have no doubts about the knights’ willingness to jump into hell for their king, but recent developments had led him to think otherwise. Even Gwaine, Percival and Elyan were being caught more and more often in deep conversation that died down the moment Merlin or Arthur entered the room, or pointedly ignoring Leon for siding with Arthur at every turn.

 It wasn’t what Merlin wanted, but it was what he’d got. Just like all those people now got to die for a lost cause, a hopeless dream, a maniac’s whim.

Elyan went down first and unbelievably quick, like the cursed sword’s only purpose in life had been to wait for him to jump on solid ground and run him through. Merlin didn’t think anyone had noticed, so busy they were with their individual combats, but much later, when every loss would sink in, the faces of the fallen ones would blur together and Elyan’s existence would be too trivial to be properly mourned by anyone but the queen. Merlin thought he owed him that, at least, but a Saxon with a very sharp blade had other plans for him.

And so it started, and it went on and on, a never-ending dance of careful dodges and trickling blood that made its way across the plain from dawn to dust.

Merlin avoided using his magic in public if he could help it, but more than once an ally of Morgana had tested his patience by sneaking up on him, or on Arthur, or trying to strike him down with cheap magical tricks. He tried to be subtle about it, doing his best not to catch anyone’s eye, but by the time the sun set, its wake tingeing the sky blood red to match the rivulets on the ground, Arthur had to shake his own warriors out of their trance to turn their attention on the battle at hand and away from Merlin’s golden eyes.

Never had Merlin seen Arthur so frantic, or so desperate. Merlin struggled to keep count of the bodies, but Arthur whipped his head left and right, mourning that one knight who’d been too unsettled to face a former friend or that other knight who’d given up halfway through the swordfight to be put out of his misery.

Merlin didn’t understand how they could possibly be losing, how so many people could be dead despite Arthur’s golden leadership and Merlin’s magic powers – but Arthur clearly did, because he stepped forward and glanced upwards, to the rock his sister was standing on, hidden and watching from afar. “Morgana!”

A group of Saxons thought to take advantage of Arthur’s distraction, but they were immediately silenced by Morgana, who came out of the shadows to hear what Arthur had to say and possibly gaze upon his worthlessness. Her followers must’ve learnt never to take an amusement opportunity away from her, just as Arthur’s men had learnt to trust him implicitly, because a cloak of silence fell over Camlann as warriors parted to allow Arthur’s advance.

“Hello, dear brother.” Morgana’s attempt at a snicker was the emptiest, loneliest sound Merlin had ever heard. Sorrow had hollowed out her eyes and drained colour from her cheeks, stealing what little humanity was left in her. Merlin had to take a step back at the sight of her. “Is this you finally giving up?”

Arthur braced himself. “As a matter of fact, it is.”

“ _Arthur_.” Merlin hissed. “No!”

“I made this mess and I should be the one to pay. No one else has to die for me.”

Morgana grinned. “Very good. Come forward and we’ll settle this out between the two of us.”

“Not so fast.” Arthur held up a hand, effectively silencing both the outraged shouts of his comrades and the Saxons’ raging enthusiasm. “I’m not so stupid to let myself be killed to allow you to begin your rule of terror. So I’m going to offer you a deal.”

“Does it involve your head on a spike?” Morgana asked hopefully.

“Well, ideally, yes.”

Merlin slapped himself over the head as he wondered who the hell ever thought putting Arthur in charge of anything had been a good idea. 

“Here’s the deal. I will face one of your warriors – one of your choice. If you win, you and Guinevere will split Camelot’s lands. Guinevere will do her best to uphold fairness and justice in her every decision, but every magic user who wishes to serve under you is free to do so. All I ask is that you leave Guinevere and the people of my kingdom alone.”

Morgana made a non-committal gesture. “And if _you_ win?”

“You _will_ withdraw your army immediately and never again wage war on Camelot.” He declared. “And then it’ll be up to me to decide your fate. Sounds fair?”

His sister thought about it, but she couldn’t seem to find a catch. Her smile widened. “I do have one more request.”

Arthur frowned, struggling to think of anything he might’ve forgotten. “And that is?”

Morgana’s gaze moved from Arthur to rest on Merlin. Her jaw tightened imperceptibly, hands trembling under an impulse she wasn’t able to control. Merlin had never seen so much hatred directed at him. “Emrys won’t be able to help you.”

Before Merlin could protest, Arthur said “Deal!” and Merlin found himself swept up by two of Morgana’s men, who held him up as he kicked and screamed while they tied his hands up with some kind of magical rope Morgana must’ve saved for the occasion.

As soon as they were finished, Merlin was carelessly dropped on the ground and left struggling against the bonds, his eyes glowing gold in a useless attempt at a freeing spell. Arthur didn’t look at him.

Morgana crossed her arms to her chest. “Everyone here is witness to your word, Arthur Pendragon. You’d do well to keep it.”

The sound of footsteps echoed behind her, all signs pointing to someone coming down the mountain.

The Saxons looked at one another, trying to figure out who was missing, who Morgana had been hiding all this time. Merlin could barely breathe, red dots blackening the edge of his vision, but he shot another look at Morgana – pale, ghastly, ethereal Morgana, whose very soul had gone missing because of his foolishness – and saw no love or concern for the one she’d chosen as her champion.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, given that Morgana had never cared about her men, not the way _Arthur_ cared, but this was a different kind of cold. It was the same resignation and barely contained bitterness that stemmed from carefully veiled affection, and it turned Merlin’s blood to ice, because only one person had ever been able to elicit that response from her – and he was _dead_.

Mordred was walking towards Arthur, tall and fiery in his armour, and everyone was seeing him – but it wasn’t really Mordred, the same way it hadn’t been Lancelot. They were just vessels, empty shells filled with Morgana’s will who only lived long enough to unsettle her enemy. 

The Mordred Merlin had known had been too loyal to Arthur to ever betray him, but this version of him answered to no one but Morgana. This Mordred would have killed Arthur without thinking twice, and Arthur-

Arthur wouldn’t defend himself.

Merlin tried to scream, but the more he struggled, the tighter the knots got. Arthur was barely dodging Mordred’s blows, not even trying to counterattack, and he seemed unable to separate that shadow from the actual boy he’d saved and watched grow up. Like all those knights who’d paid with their lives for being too scared to kill their friends, Arthur was giving up, too destabilised to stop seeing Mordred as a reminder of everything he’d done wrong and of how badly he’d failed.

Like in Merlin’s vision, Mordred advanced through the flames. Arthur didn’t stop him.

Merlin lost consciousness before Arthur’s knees hit the ground.

* * *

An unspecified amount of time passed between Arthur’s last breath and Merlin’s awakening in the Crystal Cave. Balinor was kneeling over him, his troubled face relaxing the moment Merlin opened his eyes. “Finally. I was starting to think you’d never wake up.”

“Father.” Merlin whispered, eyeing his surroundings for any indication of what day it was and how long he’d been asleep. He didn’t lift his head yet. “What happened?”

“You passed out from an overuse of magic.” He leant back on his heels, his hands pushing himself off the ground. “You’d been staring in that crystal for hours.”

“Hours.” Merlin echoed, waiting for the memories to come back to him. Given that such a short time span had allowed him to live nearly three months that had never existed, he wasn’t in the position to complain.

He found he remembered it all, too. The White Mountains, the certainty of everyone on the Council that their king had gone well and truly mad, every single night he and Arthur had spent wrapped around each other. Camlann lingered at the edges of his mind, vicious and restless and begging for Merlin’s attention, but Merlin managed to fight off the flames and the smoke for one moment longer to press his fingers to his lips.

Arthur had kissed him – several times. They’d lain together in Arthur’s bed, drunk on each other’s breath, giddily bumping mouths and teeth and noses in their haste to taste each other. He’d been so sure he could save Arthur, but the possibility of him letting Merlin in like that, seeing him like that, had never crossed his mind. That there were lives where he and Arthur had managed to get it right, and that Merlin had the chance to live them at all, was nothing short of a miracle.

Balinor misunderstood his teary eyes and furrowed his brow. “I’m going to assume that didn’t go as well as you’d planned?”

Merlin shook his head. He hadn’t been able to save Arthur, and lifting the ban off magic had broken the kingdom apart, and he’d figured out getting Mordred out of the way would’ve been useless, anyway, because eventually he would’ve found his way back. Merlin should’ve been throwing punches at the cave wall, kicking everything in his path, bringing down the heavens with his fury, but even though the pain hadn’t gotten any better he now had one more reason to bear it. It wasn’t just about Arthur’s happiness anymore – Merlin could be happy, too. And happiness was something he’d been denied a long time ago.

“Mordred died.” He explained, not wanting to get into cheesy details. “Then Morgana raised him from the dead, so Arthur was killed anyway.”

Balinor raised an eyebrow. That was certainly not something he heard every day. “So is there no way to…you know…“

“Stop Arthur from getting murdered?” Merlin finished his sentence for him. “You can say it, Father. I’ve just relived that moment for the third time. It’s not going to get worse.”

Merlin regretted his words the moment they came out of his mouth, because if experience had ever taught him anything, it was that things could, and would, always get worse.

“And to answer your question…I’m not giving up.”

“That’s not answering my question, Merlin.”

“I know what to do. All right?” He finally got to his feet, wobbling a little as he tried to stand up. Balinor had to rush to his side to help him up, but Merlin kept speaking regardless. “Mordred was never the key to defeating the prophecy. Morgana was. Mordred, and so many other sorcerers, would have never attempted to kill Arthur if Morgana hadn’t been there to corrupt their minds.”

Balinor was increasingly growing concerned with the nature of Merlin’s plans. “You’re going to kill Morgana?”

Merlin thought about it. He considered letting Morgana die from her head wound when she’d been on her way to stab Uther, and how easy and clean it would’ve been - but in a world where fathers came back to haunt their kids and valiant knights rose out of a lake, death was not guarantee enough.

“I don’t have to kill her.” Merlin decided. “All I need to do is make sure she doesn’t turn on Camelot. She was scared and alone and I didn’t help her, even if I could have.”

Balinor didn’t comment. He hadn’t been around when Morgana had turned against Camelot, but even if he had, there was nothing he could tell Merlin now – about how useless his quest for closure was, how delusional he was being thinking he could mess with time like this – that he hadn’t already.

Unfortunately, Merlin didn’t get the chance to take advantage of Balinor’s silence, because none of the crystals seemed willing to respond to his wishes. His gaze went unfocused, his eyebrows furrowed, his hands still stupidly outstretched in front of him. The familiar thrum of magic was missing from his heartbeat.

He tried again, unsuccessfully.

Merlin saw worry flash in Balinor’s eyes. “Merlin, did this happen a long time ago?”

Merlin shrugged, covering up the panic that had threatened to choke him. He kept staring at his hands as if he’d never seen them before. “A few years back, a little before I met you. Why?”

“Because the further back in time you go, the more magic you’ll be drained of. You went back to a few months ago and you’re already not looking too good.”

“I’m fine, Father.”

“You slept for two days straight.” Balinor eyed him up and down, as if making sure he wouldn’t fall apart. “You’re _not_ fine.”

“I will be,” Merlin insisted, “once I find a way to keep Arthur with me.”

If Balinor seemed surprised at Merlin’s choice of words, he didn’t dare say anything. “Just rest for a while, son. That’s all I’m asking. You won’t help Arthur by dying from exhaustion.”

Merlin had no intention of prolonging his wait, but he also didn’t want to fight with his father. In some way, Balinor was as connected to the cave as Merlin was and, greatest sorcerer or not, even he wouldn’t be able to access the crystals’ magic if Balinor didn’t allow it.

Frustrated by the unfairness of the situation, he lifted his hands up in surrender and sat on the ground like an angsty teenager who had just been reprimanded by a parent.

* * *

Contrary to Arthur’s personal beliefs, Merlin had never liked to sit around and do nothing, especially when it came to matters of life and death, but his new parental figure had taken it upon himself to fill in the role he hadn’t had the chance to play in life, so Merlin figured he could make the best of his time by carefully tying up loose ends in his plan and occasionally asking for Balinor’s advice.

Balinor wanted to make absolutely sure that Merlin knew what he was doing, so they went over every possible worst case scenario that could put a wrench in Merlin’s mission. Merlin didn’t voice his doubts out loud, but he did wonder how all that talking could possibly reflect on past actions; he’d have no power over the images the crystal showed him, and nothing he did now would either lessen or improve his chances.

He’d already quietly accepted the inevitability of Arthur’s death and the role Camlann would play in that, and he knew better than to hope his guidance would make Morgana more complacent, but he _could_ try to put off the ruin of Camelot until he and Arthur had lived a long, fulfilling life. No prophecy had ever ruled that possibility out.

Merlin cleared his throat to get his father’s attention, interrupting him as he yammered on about how important it was not to waste precious magic on getting anyone killed. “I think I’m ready now.”

He had expected Balinor to shake his head again, tell him that no, he wasn’t ready, and awkwardly try to exercise his parental authority on him again, but he just gave a defeated sigh. Merlin had been in the cave for hours, recharging; he couldn’t find any more excuses to keep him there.

Merlin was well aware that he’d only been trying to be a good father to him, and that he wanted to make up for lost time. A few months before, Merlin had wanted nothing more.

He turned his back on the other man, his heart heavy with words unspoken, and reached for the nearest crystal.

* * *

Now that Merlin was well rested and more familiar with the whole process, his magic didn’t require any thought or special effort to work; all he had to do was wait until oblivion came to claim his hindsight and sweep away his memories, and suddenly Morgana came into existence in front of him like she’d always been there, regal and bright and fiercely proud.

“Did you see that?” she laughed, a flash of teeth capturing some of the candlelight as she sank freshly polished nails into Merlin’s arm.

Merlin couldn’t help but smile fondly at her, ignoring the subtle pain where her fingers dug in his skin. They’d been standing in the dark for hours, waiting for Morgana to light a match with her mind, so that being able to see her face now was an accomplishment in itself. “Indeed. You’re a fast learner.”

“That’s what everyone says.” Morgana prided herself.

Merlin wasn’t surprised: Morgana being good at anything she set her mind on was perfectly in line with everything he knew about her. He tried not to think about Gaius’s warnings and the dragon’s prophecy, focusing instead on Morgana’s newfound happiness. Just the day before she’d been alone and scared out of her mind, and he’d have gone to the ends of the world for her not to feel the same way he had.

He’d done nothing wrong, Merlin kept telling himself. He was just trying to help. But if he’d really believed that, he and Morgana would be openly talking in Gaius’ chambers rather than hiding in her own. He rejected that thought too.

“You’re in full control now.” He assessed. “You won’t have to fear starting another fire while you’re sleeping.”

“I also broke a vase.” Morgana reminded him. “How about that?”

Merlin shrugged. “We’ll just have to hope for the best. Just…don’t let the magic get the best of you. You should know now that it doesn’t own you.”

“ _I_ own it.” Morgana nodded in understanding.

_“No!”_ Merlinnearly yelled in alarmbefore remembering to keep it down. “No, absolutely not, no. This isn’t about ownership, it’s about…harmony. Partnership. You are not separate from your magic, and until you accept it as part of you, shards of glass and broken windows are all you’re going to get.”

Morgana frowned. “How am I supposed to keep it in check, then?”

“Stop being scared.” It was the best – and only – advice Merlin’s limited experience could give. “Trust that it’s not going to hurt you or anyone else unless you want it to.”

When he saw Morgana’s face go pale, Merlin wanted to hit himself in the face. He was trying to comfort Morgana, to show her magic wasn’t as bad as she’d been made to believe, and he’d only made it worse.

“Why would I want that?” Morgana whispered, horrified. Merlin knew she was thinking of her failed murder attempt the year before, as he was too – but he had to remind himself that she’d stopped. She’d had the chance to kill Uther on a silver plate, and she’d stopped. That had to mean something.

“You wouldn’t. That’s what I’m saying. Magic is only as evil as the one wielding it.” He stared at her. “Do you want to hurt anyone?”

She weighed her answer carefully, tasting it on her tongue before letting it out. “Sometimes.”

Blood rushed in Merlin’s ears, dread freezing him on the spot. He clenched his jaw. “Is it Uther?”

More silence on her part, and then a shrug. “Sometimes.”

_She stopped_ , he had to remind himself again. As if he hadn’t thought about murdering Uther a thousand times too. He was no better than she was. “Who else?”

“It’s just-“ she hesitated, and that’s when Merlin knew this was going to be a long, long night. “Everything I’ve heard about magic my whole life. I know Uther is wrong. But maybe there are parts of me that still feel like – like I’m doing something unnatural.”

“You think your magic’s acting out against you?” Merlin shook his head incredulously. “Morgana, when I was two I almost set my house on fire. And then I learned how to control it. Nothing is more natural than that.”

“Then why not show them?” By _them_ , she didn’t mean just Uther and Arthur. She meant everyone that wasn’t in her chambers at that time. “Why not end the stigma against our kind?”

“I’m trying, Morgana. I really am. But there’s nothing I can do right now.”

“Uther will never change his mind,” Morgana agreed, “I know that. But Arthur is a better man than his father. If we tell him-“

“No! You _can’t_ tell Arthur. You must _not_ tell Arthur. He’s not ready to hear about this yet.”

Morgana did a double take. “But Arthur is destined to free us. You said so yourself.”

“Not like this. If I go up to Arthur and tell him I’m a sorcerer, it will be disastrous. He’ll execute me.”

“Do you honestly believe Arthur thinks so little of you?”

Merlin blinked. “Yes.”

He and Arthur had grown closer in the past year, but they were still nowhere near to being friends – at least as far as Arthur was concerned. Merlin had tried reaching out to him several times, and Arthur had always shut him down. He didn’t see how coming clean to him would help his cause in any way.

“God, Merlin. And here I thought you were smarter than you looked.” Morgana crossed her arms to her chest like a mother scolding a child. “You know what? Never mind. If Arthur wanted to execute you, he’d have to execute me too. And if you don’t believe he cares about you even the slightest bit, believe that he cares about _me_ enough not to let that happen.”

That, Merlin didn’t find hard to believe. Even if he’d never admit it, Arthur adored Morgana; she was the only one who could talk him into fighting the Afanc and helping the druid boy escape. If it came to it, Arthur would have no second thoughts about protecting her, but they couldn’t just force him to ignore his duty to his father.

“I don’t know, Morgana. Too many things could go wrong. We can’t just spring this up on him, not while Uther’s still alive.”

“That doesn’t mean Arthur can’t be educated in the meantime – like you’re doing with me. It’s supposed to be your job, isn’t it? Then what are you waiting for?”

He didn’t like to think of his destiny with Arthur as a job. First, because he wasn’t getting paid for it, and second, because it diminished his enjoyment of the few moments when Arthur wasn’t yelling at him or ordering him around. Regardless of his duty, Merlin actually liked the guy; if Arthur didn’t insist on being a stuck-up prat, they would’ve gotten along so well. Maybe, with time, he would learn to let people in, and discovering he’d been tricked by his own manservant wouldn’t help seal the deal.

“We’ll change his mind,” he promised. “But Morgana, do _not_ tell Arthur about your magic. Or mine. Not anytime soon.” He looked at her to make sure she’d understood. “You need to promise me.”

Morgana didn’t look too happy, and Merlin could now expect a thousand questions coming his way, but she nodded reluctantly. “I promise.”

* * *

When Merlin eventually left Morgana’s chambers, taking great care to close the door behind him as softly as possible so it wouldn’t echo down the hallway, Arthur was waiting for him in an alcove.

“ _I knew it!”_ he muttered under his breath, sounding overjoyed with himself and deeply offended at the same time. Only Arthur, Merlin thought while he waited for his heartbeat to slow down, would be able to pull that off.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin hissed. “I tucked you in more than two hours ago!”

“I figured you’d be here. And I was right.” He said brightly. “You _are_ disobeying me. And courting Morgana.”

Merlin grimaced. “It’s really creepy how overly concerned you are with my love life.”

“First of all, _never_ mention your love life in front of me again.” He visibly recoiled at the thought, but being right filled him with so much pride that he didn’t bother to drop the smile. “And even though you like to pretend otherwise,  Merlin, I’m still a prince. It’s my duty to check up on my servants and make sure they’re behaving correctly.”

“In the middle of the night?” Merlin inquired. “Lurking in dark alcoves?”

“Whatever it takes to catch you in the act, since you won’t admit to it.” Arthur’s eyes narrowed on him. “Care to explain?”

Merlin shrugged. “I was just trying to help her with her nightmares. I brought her a sleeping draught from Gaius and then talked to her until she fell asleep.”

“Well, let this be proof of how boring you are.”

“Ha ha.” Merlin had seen that joke coming from a mile away.

“Seriously, Merlin.” Any trace of amusement was suddenly gone from Arthur’s face. “You’ve had your fun, but enough is enough. You need to stay away from Morgana.”

“Why? She’s my friend. If _you_ want her attention instead, just be nice to her. She’ll hardly reject you.”

Arthur blushed violently. “That is _not_ what this is about. You two are keeping secrets from me and I’ll find out what they are.”

He stomped away like an angry child who’d had his favourite toy ripped out of his hands, and the sound of his footsteps followed Merlin all the way to his own chambers.

Ready to finally get some well-deserved rest, Merlin pushed the door open to find a brooding and very much awake Gaius sitting up cross-armed on his bed.

Taking advantage of Merlin’s momentary shock, he raised both eyebrows at once. “I believe you have much explaining to do.”

* * *

Merlin’s sloppy apology was followed by an hour long screaming match about the importance of keeping secrets, the irony of which did not escape him. Gaius was less than thrilled about having to watch out for Morgana too, but now that the cat was out of the bag the best thing Gaius could do was prevent collateral damage and brace for the impact. He was a much better teacher than Merlin, too, patient and reassuring and just the slightest bit harsh whenever Morgana brought up wanting to tell Arthur the truth.

“Not necessarily about me,” she protested when Gaius gave her the infamous Eyebrow, “just about magic. About how good it can be and how it can help people. If we don’t start instilling these ideas in his mind now, nothing will change when he becomes king.”

“You must tread carefully, Morgana,” Gaius would repeat again and again, “because if Arthur suspects anything, you’ll be ruining yourself with your own hands.”

“That is, assuming Arthur ever guesses the actual reason we’re acting weird.” Merlin pointed out. “He’s still convinced I’m trying to woo Morgana. He’s not smart enough.”

Morgana laughed under her breath, a hint of blush colouring her cheeks, and Merlin couldn’t help but notice that she looked extraordinarily beautiful in that light. Then Gaius caught him staring, and Merlin had to look away and wait for his heartbeat to slow down to normal.

It’s not like he’d never noticed Morgana’s beauty before, but he’d grown used to it the same way people living near a waterfall stopped paying mind to the current, or people looking at Arthur every day learnt to stand the sight of him without going blind. Now that it had been brought to his attention again, he couldn’t stop seeing it.

He started taking advantage of Morgana’s magical inexperience to spend more time with her, whenever he wasn’t running around after Arthur and she wasn’t busy with Gwen. Morgana never complained; by the way she talked to him, it was as if she lived for the few hours they spent together, learning new spells and making up action plans and keeping each other grounded.

In no time at all, though, it became apparent that Morgana was beyond needing any serious help  from Merlin. One day, when she was out with Gwen, they fell into an ambush and got kidnapped by a group of bandits who were hoping to hold the king’s ward hostage and, by the time Arthur and his knights were getting all geared up for a rescue mission, Morgana and Gwen were already, inexplicably, back at the castle, safe and sound and excitedly retelling their adventure for everyone to hear.

“It was incredible.” Gwen was saying to Arthur when he pulled her into a hug. “We were so lucky. If that tree hadn’t fallen over the bandits while we were trying to escape-“

“How _did_ you escape?” Merlin intervened. Arthur seemed to suddenly notice that he was standing too close to Gwen, and jumped away from her like he’d been stung. Merlin raised an eyebrow at that, and stored that scene in his mind for future perusal.

Gwen looked just as flustered as Arthur did, her reply purposefully quick in an attempt to redirect Merlin’s attention. “They led us to a river so Morgana could bathe, and we took them by surprise. Everyone was too busy staring at Morgana undressing to pay me any mind as I took one of their swords.”

She must’ve misunderstood the shock on Merlin’s face, because her blush came back full force. “No! It was just a trick to keep them distracted. She didn’t remove _all_ her clothing. She wasn’t violated or anything-”

“I got it, Gwen.” Merlin nodded, shaking off the uncomfortable mental image her words had drawn in his head. “What happened then?”

“I tried to toss her the sword, but when I turned around she already had one. I don’t know how it happened, but the man who was guarding her was a few feet away, dead on the ground.”

“She stabbed him?”

Arthur’s eyes were moving back and forth between the two of them, trying to figure out the urgency in Merlin’s voice. Morgana and Gwen had come back without a scratch, and that was all that mattered to him.

Gwen shook her head. “He must’ve tripped and snapped his neck. There was no blood on the blade and he was too far away for Morgana to have done anything.”

“He did trip. On a root.”

Three heads turned at the same time when a new voice joined the conversation. Morgana had just finished talking to Uther, who had monopolised her since she’d set foot – well, horse – in the castle courtyard, and she was now walking towards them, a weary smile matching the bags under her eyes.

“He tripped,” she repeated, as if mentally rehearsing words from a long lost script, “and I took advantage of that to take his sword. Then we ran.”

A stunning spell. Morgana had grown particularly good at it, if the many bruises Merlin woke up with after being repeatedly cast across the floor were any indication. He held her gaze, but Morgana’s eyes revealed nothing.

Gwen was nodding absentmindedly. “The element of surprise gave us a headstart, so we were able to fight off some of them, but those still on their feet were right behind us. When _I_ tripped and sprained my ankle, I thought it was over.”

“Rugged terrain.” Morgana replied to Merlin’s silent question. “And that’s when the tree fell over the bandits, only a few steps away.”

“Had I tripped any earlier, we would’ve been dead, too.” Gwen agreed.

“A whole tree?” Arthur asked, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. “A whole tree fell over them?”

“It wasn’t an oak or anything, Arthur.” Morgana chuckled. Merlin stared her down. “But it was big enough to give us the chance to escape. Some heedless woodcutter might’ve actually saved our lives.”

Arthur rubbed the back of his head, as confused as when the conversation had started. “It does seem so.”

“My lord,” Merlin called to Arthur, not taking his watchful eyes off Morgana for even a second. “I should take Gwen to Gaius, make sure her ankle heals. The Lady Morgana should come too,  lest she feel unwell after this stressful day.”

Arthur opened his mouth to protest like he always did but, unable to come up with a good excuse to keep Merlin and Morgana apart, he just threw his hands up in frustration and walked away with a half-shrug.

* * *

While Gaius tended to Gwen, Merlin grabbed Morgana by the elbow and led her out of the room, into the hallway. Arthur was nowhere to be seen, dragged off to who-knows-where by his father, but he’d pop up there soon enough, pretending to be checking up on Gwen, so they had to be discreet.

When Merlin let her go, Morgana’s face was unreadable, if slightly annoyed. “What was that about?”

She batted her eyelids, playing innocent. “What was _what_ about?”

“You slaughtered people. With _magic_.” He only mouthed the last word. “Which you’d promised you’d never do.”

Morgana tilted her head. “ _Slaughter_ makes it sound like I snapped, grabbed a knife and chopped them into tiny little bloody pieces for my own entertainment. This was self-defence.”

Merlin huffed. “I saw you in battle. You could’ve easily chopped a man’s head off without using magic.”

“All right, so it was just easier that way. What’s the difference?”

“It’s not a weapon, Morgana. Stop treating it as such. You were not born with magic so you could abuse your power.”

Morgana raised her voice just enough to be overheard down the hall, to Merlin’s great discomfort. “Then what was it for? If I can’t use magic to save my own life, what is it that I was chosen for?”

He was suddenly reminded of something Morgana herself had told him a year ago, when they were both elbow-deep in trying to protect the druid boy and it had forced her to reconsider her stance on magic: _What if magic isn’t something you choose? What if it chooses you?_

If magic really was a benign force like Merlin had been brought up to believe, he had no reason to think Morgana’s hands would corrupt it, but if fighting his fair share of sorcerers had taught him anything, it was that magic was about balance more than it was about great destinies and brighter futures. Magic chose its wielder, but it didn’t always provide a reason for it.

It’s not like he could blame Morgana for being caught up in the hype; finding out his powers made him special and not a monster had been life-changing for him, too, but being _special_ came with a burden and responsibilities and as many negative connotations as there were positive. Merlin understood now why Gaius had wanted to keep it a secret from her: a tyrannical, magic-hating king having a rebellious magical ward was nothing but a recipe for disaster.

Merlin couldn’t answer her question. “I hope it’s better than this.”

“Oh, like you’ve never killed anyone with magic before.” She was right, of course, but Merlin wouldn’t waste time trying to explain how different and more dangerous a situation it would be for her. “They were bandits, holding us captive. I saw a chance to get away and I seized it. Sorry if that doesn’t agree with your mindset.”

Morgana’s voice was unlike anything he’d ever heard come out of her mouth, dripping venom and sarcasm and the same kind of confidence that could only be faked. Merlin saw right through it, but Morgana wouldn’t admit to being scared, not after working so hard to own up to her power.

His breath hitched in his throat. “It’s all right, Morgana.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, hoping she’d remember they were still in the castle and do the same. “I understand.”

“I didn’t mean to kill them.” She hissed, trying and failing to sound threatening. “It’s not my fault that guy I stunned hit his head, or that the tree fell right over his friends. I just wanted to cause a distraction.”

“It’s all right.” Merlin repeated, lifting a hand between them to touch her shoulder in reassurance. “You’re all right.”

Morgana blinked up at him, a veil of unshed tears clouding her vision; then she fell against him, clinging to his jacket, face burrowed in his ever present scarf. Merlin just held her while she shook with silent, dry sobs.

* * *

When a stinky, disgusting troll infiltrated Camelot under the guise of Lady Catrina of Tregor, Morgana didn’t wait for a second opinion before bursting in Arthur’s chambers and interrupting his morning ritual. The tunic that was being held up over Arthur’s head was immediately cast aside when Merlin turned his head to see her march in, blue dress grazing the floor.

“Arthur, I’m only going to say this once, and you need to hear me out.”

Arthur sighed exaggeratedly, making a big show of opening his arms to frame his half naked figure. “Does it have to be while I’m shirtless?”

“Are you ever not?” Morgana bit back, to Merlin’s mild disappointment. He wouldn’t have objected to the idea, if he hadn’t had to remind himself to avert his eyes every time Arthur looked at him. In answer to Arthur’s growl, Morgana just rolled her eyes. “Get on with it, you two.”

Arthur ripped the tunic out of Merlin’s hands, eager to cover up. “What is it, Morgana? I hope Merlin’s crazy fairytale theories haven’t gotten to your head too.”

“Arthur, I’m sorry to tell you like this,” she said in a tone that implied the opposite, “but your future stepmother really is a troll. And the actual, tangible proof is sitting below Camelot, eating dung.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, impressed at her choice of words. Merlin would’ve told her to cut it out if he hadn’t been so distracted and amused by Arthur’s visible shock, but he barely managed a stutter. “Morgana, I don’t think that’s-“

“A good idea? You’re lucky I didn’t kill that troll myself.”

He was glad Morgana had resumed thinking with her head before her heart,  but she knew as well as he did that seeking the Pendragons’ help often did more bad than good.

Arthur stammered: “If you’re so sure of that, why would you tell me and not my father?”

“Is this really the most pressing matter to you?” Morgana asked. “As if Uther would ever listen to me. Come on. If you’re not fond of horse manure in your shoes, you should really follow me.”

She turned around and walked out the door, never looking back to check if anyone was following. She didn’t need to; she knew they were. Arthur wouldn’t believe Merlin if he’d slain the troll himself and brought her to Arthur as proof, but Morgana had a way of drawing people to her, of making them yearn for her approval, and that, Merlin knew, was what made her dangerous in the first place, even more so than her reckless use of magic.

“If she turns out to be right,” Merlin whispered into Arthur’s ear as they walked, “I want a day off.”

Arthur tightened the hold around the sword he’d brought with him. “Sure. Do you want to ride unicorns into the sunset, too?”

Merlin had expected nothing less from him. “You’re rude.” And then, to Morgana: “Are you sure they didn’t catch you?”

“They didn’t. I was careful.” But she turned her head in his direction, eyebrows furrowed. “Did they catch _you_?”

Merlin feigned innocence. “Well, you see-”

“Oh, _great_.” Morgana’s steps grew more and more resolute, her heels clicking furiously on the ground as if to alert everyone of her arrival. Merlin didn’t understand how that could be of any help, but he figured Morgana had a plan. “Let’s keep our eyes open. Do not trust anyone.”

Merlin would’ve liked to pride himself on knowing he wouldn’t have needed Morgana’s advice – but truth be told, when distant crashing and a yelp sounded down the hall, he had to be stopped by Arthur from running to the rescue. Arthur walked up to where Morgana had frozen in her tracks and held his sword up in front of him, silently approaching the spot where the very much human noise had come from.

“Show yourself.” He demanded.

When a limping, sulking Jonas crawled out of his hiding place, ears pointy and hair greasy as ever, none of them was really surprised. Merlin could’ve sworn Morgana looked _relieved_.

“Forgive me, my lord.” Jonas hastily got up and brushed the dust off his clothes.

“Were you following us?” Arthur jabbed the sword closer to Jonas’s throat, startling him enough to push him back and send him into a string of deep bows.

“No, my lord,” he swore, his knees settling for the floor when they gave way under his weight. “How could I? I was coming from the opposite direction.”

Arthur frowned. “Why were you hiding, then?”

Jonas looked at the three of them, how they’d been walking together, and he seemed to decide that whatever plan had been supposed to get rid of Merlin would’ve been too risky to carry out in the presence of the crown prince and the king’s ward. “I merely meant to elude my mistress for a while. She can be very demanding at times.”

“Oh, I bet.” Morgana muttered under her breath, only to switch to her most amiable voice when talking to Jonas: “We’d like to say a few words to the Lady Catrina, if we might.”

Jonas took a sharp intake of breath and Merlin’s hands clenched.

_What are you doing?_ His mind screamed. _We’ll never catch her in the act._

_We never would have. Just trust me._

Good thing Morgana had learnt telepathy at last, because it was much easier to communicate when you could be absolutely sure no one else was listening and you weren’t aggressively whispering in dark corners, fighting to be heard.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, my lady.” Jonas was clearly struggling to come up with a good excuse. “She’s really busy with preparations for the wedding.”

“My, that is actually what we wanted to talk to her about.” Morgana mastered her best dazzling smile. “Arthur and I would just like to congratulate her. She’ll become our stepmother, after all. Isn’t that right, Arthur?”

“Absolutely.” Arthur played along. “We’ve spent far too little time with her.”

The sound that came out of Jonas’s mouth resembled a growl.

_Does he suspect anything?_ Merlin asked.

_If I’d been hiding something, I would’ve been more cautious about it._

Jonas hadn’t even thought twice about Arthur’s sword, so often the crown prince had it strapped to his belt. Arthur, who truly had no idea what was going on, looked innocent enough for Jonas to believe Morgana’s version, and Morgana was too convincing to even think about doubting her.

So Jonas led them through the mazes of corridors, his feet faltering at every step, despite knowing very well that they knew their way through the castle better than he did.

For reasons unbeknownst to Arthur but hilariously clear to Merlin and Morgana, Lady Catrina took her sweet time opening the door to her chambers once she realised Jonas was not alone – something about her being _indecent_ , which Merlin would’ve bet his magic on.

When she finally appeared in the doorframe, looking as uncomfortable as she must’ve felt, Morgana stepped forward and planted a kiss to her cheek. “Dearest!”

Merlin wondered if Morgana could smell the troll on her, but he decided not to dwell on it too much.

“Morgana! What a wonderful surprise.” Catrina stuttered when they pulled apart, gently stopping Morgana from rubbing her hands on hers. “And Arthur! Please, do come in.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Arthur murmured, ever politely, followed by Merlin, who hadn’t been officially invited in and therefore had to invite himself. Catrina’s expression hardened just slightly when her eyes rested on him, but Merlin didn’t back down.

Ignoring the staring contest taking place, Morgana rushed to the desk and grabbed a bottle of ale, holding it up like a sign of victory. “I think good news like that of your marriage to Uther deserves a celebration.”

“Oh, there will be much time to celebrate tomorrow-” Catrina started out, but Morgana was already pouring ale into four glasses, and the troll couldn’t afford to insist any more if she wanted to keep up pretences. When she saw Morgana pulling a little vial out of her dress sleeve, however, she couldn’t keep herself from yelping. “Sweetheart, what are you spilling in that drink?”

A string of curse words went through Merlin’s mind, but Morgana didn’t miss a beat. “My sleeping draught. The court physician suggested I start drinking it in larger and larger doses throughout the day, so its effects will gradually build up into the night. Mixing it with ale helps me feel less drowsy.” 

And, as proof of what she was saying, she took the glass she had filled with the liquid inside the vial and brought it to her mouth, taking a sip.

Lady Catrina didn’t stop to think if that made any sense. She kept darting side glances to Merlin, which caught Arthur’s attention, but Merlin was taut as a bowstring and entirely focused on Morgana.

_You’re the mastermind here. Any other plan?_

A crystal clear laugh rang in his head. _That wasn’t my plan._

Catrina reached across the desk for one of the other cups. Arthur did the same, silently asking Morgana for permission, and they all raised their glasses and drank.

That _is my plan._

Catrina’s face scrunched up halfway through her drink. She could barely put her goblet down before falling to the floor, her body twisting and swelling and rotting.

One mole at a time, scaly limb after scaly limb, teeth growing sharper, the troll slipped out of Catrina’s guise until all that was left of her was a revolting, putrescent heap in ladies' clothes.

For the first few seconds, everyone was too shocked to have much of a reaction. Then Arthur drew his sword, Morgana called the guards outside, and Merlin engaged himself in a petty fight against Jonas as he uselessly tried to defend his mistress’s honour.

_How did you do it?_ Merlin managed to ask as he floored Jonas in no time, and without resorting to any magic. _Her drink wasn’t enchanted with a revelation spell._

Morgana smiled as she stood to the side and let the guards handle the troll situation. _My lips and hands were._

Uther burst in shortly after, but not quickly enough to save the two creatures. By the time he and Gaius walked in, drawn by the screams and the sounds of blades clashing, the troll and her servant were already dead and the pendant around Uther’s neck had stopped glowing.

“I fear you’ve been enchanted, sire.” Gaius would explain much later in the throne room, when the situation had calmed down and the corpses had been unceremoniously burned in the courtyard. “We can only be thankful that the troll’s magic died with her.”

Uther just grunted, his embarrassment painfully clear in his every move. “All the more reason to wipe magic off the face of the Earth.”

Morgana, sitting on the throne next to him, clenched her jaw, but she didn’t speak up. Merlin knew she’d learnt better than to contradict Uther, and she still had the scars on her wrists to prove it. It was Arthur, against all odds, who took the floor.

“I think we should consider, Father, that it was magic itself that saved us all. If Morgana hadn’t stolen one of the troll’s potions, who knows where we would be right now.”

So that was the version they were rolling with: that Morgana had got a hold of the troll’s potions and brought them to Gaius to recreate them, only reversing their effect. Merlin didn’t even mind leaving all the credit to Morgana, seeing as she had, effectively, singlehandedly saved all their arses.

She was now looking at Arthur like he’d hung the stars in the sky – only Arthur would never guess why, and Uther managed to ruin everything in the next few seconds.

“Nonsense.” He growled. “Magic feeds other magic the way chaos feeds chaos. I’ll be sure to find the rest of their kind and destroy them all.”

And by _I,_ he obviously meant Arthur; for all of his talking and his hatred for magic, Uther rarely lifted his regal backside from the throne and relegated all the dirty work to his son. It was no wonder, then, that Arthur had come to see the extermination of magic users as a daily chore rather than an abomination.

Once again, Arthur was forced to close his mouth and nod. Morgana gripped her armrest, nearly shaking with poorly concealed fury, and Uther lifted his goblet and toasted himself on yet another string of murders to come.

* * *

Eventually, Morgana couldn’t take it anymore. “So, who’s going to overthrow Uther before _I_ do?”

Merlin banged his head against Gaius’s toppled desk. They lay in the midst of scattered paperwork, spilled ink, broken pottery and crumbling shelves, the very soul and essence of the room sucked out and replaced by dust and nothingness. “What did we say about acting on your homicidal tendencies?”

“I’m not talking about murder. I’m talking about dethroning the bastard, shackling him under the castle and letting Arthur take his place.”

Merlin would normally hiss at her to shut up, but he was too tired to. “If anyone hears you, you’ll be found guilty of treason. And I don’t think Uther will let you off the hook a second time.”

“All the more reason to put him in chains,” she snarled. “What kind of monster would execute the closest thing he has to a daughter? What kind of monster would imprison the most trusted and loyal advisor he’s ever had on the words of some power-hungry, despicable _torturer_ -“

“That’s just it, Morgana. We have bigger issues to think about right now.”

Morgana whipped on him, her dark hair bouncing in his face. “Gaius is in the _dungeons_ ,” she drawled out slowly, “to protect _us_. And you’re telling me I’m not allowed to be angry or plan Uther’s untimely demise?”

Merlin clutched the desk with both hands. “No. The Witchfinder’s going down – I’ll make sure of it. But there’s nothing we can do about Uther.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Morgana’s eyes rolled so far back into her head that Merlin started to fear a demonic possession on his hands. “We’ll just have to hope for Arthur to be the bringer of a better future. But in between Uther’s remaining lifespan and Arthur’s coronation, people will die. _Arthur_ might die. Thousands and thousands of magic users that were counting on us to protect them will have to watch their family burn. How can you just stand by and let that happen?”

“Uther is a murderer,” Merlin conceded. “But wouldn’t stooping to his level make us murderers, too?”

“Oh, don’t give me that. Don’t.” Morgana pushed herself to her feet, walking to the far end of the room in a fit of rage. “You’ve killed three sorcerers last week. With a _flying axe_. But you can’t do the same to save innocent lives among your own kind?”

How could Merlin explain? How could he ever expect Morgana to understand, if he didn’t understand it himself? Merlin harboured no affection for Uther, but Arthur – how could he ever be expected to become the great king he was foretold to be in the wake of his father’s murder? How could they ask him to build a better and more accepting future for magic users on Uther’s blood?

Merlin’s soul was doomed, but Arthur could still be spared. Merlin _wanted_ to spare him all the trouble and suffering that had been reserved for them, for as long as he could. “It’s…complicated.”

Morgana huffed. “Well, you’d better find a way to explain it. Because either you give me a reason, or I’ll take care of Uther myself.”

Merlin didn’t have time to process the chill that ran down his spine, because Arthur calmly strolled in, completely unfazed by the disarray, followed by Gwen, who went into full maidservant mode the moment she crossed the threshold.

“Merlin!” Gwen said, kneeling to pick up a stack of books. “He won’t stop. He wants to bring Morgana in for questioning _again_.”

Morgana scoffed. “I’ve already told that worm everything I know, which is _nothing_. What is it that he hopes to pry out of me?” But the tremor in her hands echoed the state of distress she’d been in for hours after her first questioning. And if Aredian could terrify someone like Morgana…

“He wants to break her,” Merlin said. “Like he did with Gaius. He wants to force her into confessing something she didn’t do just so he can get his reward.”

“Why are _you_ here, anyway?” Morgana asked Arthur, who’d been uncharacteristically silent since coming in.

“If Aredian wants to get to you, he’ll have to go through me.” Arthur said, grip tightening on the sword at his belt. “Both of you. You’ve proven far too valuable in the last few months.”

The last part was directed at Merlin, who raised his eyebrows. _Valuable_. It wasn’t a compliment of the highest order, but it was more than he’d ever expected to get from Arthur.

They might not have managed to change his stance on magic, but Morgana had insisted on including Arthur more and more often in their rescue missions - smuggling innocent sorcerers out of Camelot, covering for the youngest kids whose powers had only just started brimming over. It would’ve been hard enough to keep those plans a secret from him, considering how eager he was to meddle in their private lives, and involving him not only provided a cover for the prolonged amount of time Merlin and Morgana regularly spent together, but also appeased Arthur’s mistrust by keeping him in the loop.

Morgana didn’t appreciate Arthur’s intervention as much as Merlin did. It was becoming a problem, really, how high the bar for counting as a decent person was for her as opposed to Merlin’s bare minimum. “Oh, so that’s why you want to save us. Not because we’re being unfairly blamed or because we’re your friends, but so you can keep using us.”

Arthur sighed as if recovering from a headache, a daily occurrence around his foster sister. “You know exactly what I mean. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“So you would help us regardless? You wouldn’t call the Witchfinder at the first sighting of a horse in the smoke, would you?”

Her eyes shone with a challenge that Arthur gladly stepped up to. “There are people dying in this kingdom at this very moment, and I should focus all my time and resources on finding a sorcerer that was merely amusing himself by a _campfire_?” he sputtered.

Satisfied with his response, Morgana shot an eloquent glance at Merlin, a smirk making its way across her lips. _I told you. He’s the one._

Merlin didn’t have to be reminded of that. He never had, not for one second, doubted Arthur’s noble heart and gentle soul, never looked at him as anything less than a miracle; another reason he needed to work on raising his expectations. Morgana had put Arthur to the test, and he’d passed; now nothing would stop her from overthrowing Uther and putting Arthur on the throne.

But, like Merlin had pointed out, right now they had bigger issues to worry about.

“So, Gaius has been framed, then?” Gwen brought the conversation back on track.

Merlin nodded. “He’d never seen that amulet before. Aredian must’ve planted it there for everyone to find.” If he’d been talking about anyone else, it might’ve sounded like a lame excuse. But it was _Gaius_ , who had been almost like a father to Arthur, Morgana and Gwen alike; the opposite would’ve been much harder to believe. “I swear it’s the truth.”

“You don’t have to swear, Merlin. I’ve _dined_ with Aredian.” Arthur winced at the thought. “He’s the slimiest, shadiest sham of a human being I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing. If you can manage to expose him for what he really is, I’ll be more than happy to stop tomorrow’s execution and vouch for Gaius.”

_Tomorrow._ If they didn’t act quickly, Gaius would be dead by morning. Arthur might’ve been a prince, but there was very little he could do in terms of changing Uther’s judgment or keeping his mind from being poisoned.

“But even if this is true,” Gwen mumbled, “what can we do without proof?”

There was a knock on the door. Merlin jumped to his feet, the other three exchanging nervous glances. Morgana swallowed audibly, her body tensing up, but she was the first one to move, despite everything that awaited her on the other side of the door. Fear looked so foreign on her, so unfamiliar, that Merlin wanted to punch a wall.

“We find some,” he gritted out as the doorknob turned.

* * *

Merlin had never really looked back on his many killings, nor regretted any of them; he was the kind of murderer, as Morgana had so kindly taken to reminding him, that studied his victims for a long time before judging them deserving of either mercy or death, so as to keep his conscience clean. He’d never realised he was doing it, but he had to admit there _was_ something equally worrying and awfully inventive about pushing the Witchfinder out of a window after watching him choke on a frog – not that anyone would miss him.

Either way, after Aredian’s terrible, unfortunate accident, Morgana was so over the moon that, by the time a witch named Morgause quite literally broke in the throne room while a knighting ceremony was taking place to drop a gauntlet in front of Arthur, Merlin had forgotten all about her plans to chain Uther up and finally liberate their kind. Morgana, sadly, had not.

Merlin saw it in the unhealthy way she seemed to obsess over Morgause, and Morgause over her; the way she regarded Morgause’s magic bracelet on her own wrist, and sometimes kissed it for a good night’s sleep before going to bed; the glint in Morgana’s eyes when she talked about her, like she were a long lost childhood friend rather than a stranger who’d spent her two-day stay in Camelot playing mind games with Arthur. Merlin could only be thankful Morgana didn’t know the whole story, or she’d be pushed past the point of no return with no hopes of ever being brought back.

He couldn’t count on Morgana to hide the real reason of Ygraine’s death from Arthur, not when it touched all of them and their battle so intrinsically and not when knowing the truth could potentially ruin Arthur’s life. No matter how distraught and disillusioned Arthur could turn out, she wouldn’t pass up on the opportunity to turn Arthur against his father. So Merlin never told her, and he never warned her against sneaking out to see Morgause because she wouldn’t have listened to him anyway.

But what the spirit of Ygraine had said, about Arthur being born of magic, was nagging at him every waking moment. Because the connection he’d always felt around Arthur, the little string that tied their fates and hearts and centres, had suddenly started to make sense, which meant the same could be true for Morgana and Morgause as well.

Somehow, he wasn’t sure Morgana’s destiny with her could amount to anything good – especially as, according to Kilgharrah, Morgana’s destiny was bound to include an alliance with Mordred, too.

“Morgana,” Merlin asked one day when he finally caught her alone in her chambers, before she could run away again, “did you steal the Crystal of Neahtid from the castle vaults?”

Merlin had taken the fall for her, risking Arthur’s eternal wrath, but he still thought he deserved an explanation. If she’d only talked to him, if she’d let him help –

Morgana just shrugged. “Maybe I did.”

 He didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended at how easy it had been to get the truth out of her. “And why didn’t you tell me?”

“You would have tried to stop me,” she replied. “Does my every decision have to pass through you, first? Because that doesn’t sit right with me.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Even though it was. “You weren’t smart enough. Everyone’s looking for it now. Who did you give it to?”

Morgana scoffed. “That is none of your business, Merlin.”

“Tell me who you gave the crystal to,” Merlin drawled out slowly, “or I’ll have to assume Camelot’s in danger and I’ll tell Arthur that I saw you stealing the vault’s keys from his chambers.”

It came out a lot more childish and less threatening than Merlin had intended it to be, making Morgana laugh uproariously. It was only one second, but he could swear he saw Morgana’s outlines quiver slightly, taking on a different form, morphing her into a different person. “You’re not in the position to make any threats. No one would believe you.”

Despite Morgana’s eyes burning a hole through his skull, Merlin didn’t look away. “Arthur would. He and Gwen know all about your saviour complex and blatant disregard of the rules, and I’m sure they’d be more than happy to support my side of the story.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Morgana taunted him. “You were my accomplice through everything. So if I’m going down, I’m dragging you down with me. You breathe a word of this to Arthur, and I swear Uther will hear all about how the cursed druid girl escaped three months ago.”

Freya. She was talking about Freya, all alone and helpless in a cage he’d freed her from; he and Morgana had hidden her in the tunnels for as long as they could, and then helped her escape. It hadn’t been hard to convince Arthur to turn a blind eye on them again and to cover for them while they faked the girl’s death, so she could finally live in peace.

Morgana wouldn’t do it. She was stubborn, and aggravating, and potentially dangerous, but she wasn’t a hypocrite. She’d never screw over her own kind just to prove a point, not after going to such lengths to prove magic users worthy of respect and compassion.

“She’s got nothing to do with your petty revenge plans. Leave her out of this.” Merlin hissed, feeling panic rising up his throat. “What does Mordred need the crystal for?”

“Oh, so you do know who was in my chambers.”

“He wasn’t alone.” Merlin insisted. “There was a man with him. Morgana, please, if Arthur’s life’s at stake, I _need_ to know.“

“Arthur’s life?” Morgana blinked, clearly flabbergasted. Morgana’s lack of faith in Arthur had never been a problem; she obviously trusted him enough to want to pave his way to the throne. “Arthur is perfectly safe. He always has been. As long as he doesn’t oppose me, no harm will come to him.”

Merlin chose not to think about the implications of that – that Arthur was protected only so long as Morgana deemed it necessary for him to be. “Who’s _them_ , Morgana?”

Morgana bit her lips, pondering whether telling him could seriously impact her plans. She either thought too much of herself or too little of Merlin, because she decided to give in to his requests. “Their leader is named Alvarr. He’s a good man. He’s only trying to restore our freedom.”

“What do they need the crystal for?”

“It allows them to see the future. I don’t know.” Morgana shrugged. “They want to consider every possible outcome of their war on Camelot. They’ve _sworn_ civilians won’t be involved.” She added quickly when Merlin went pale at the news. “If he doesn’t try to resist, even Uther might get out of it all in one piece.”

“And what if he doesn’t? Do you honestly think Arthur’s going to stand for that?”

“If he can’t see that it’s the right thing to do, then he’s not the king I thought he was.”

“It’s his _father_. How can you expect him not to be upset about it?”

“I had a father too, once.” Her eyes narrowed. “He was the best of men and Uther left him to die. I had to move on like nothing ever happened.”

“Then why would you want Arthur to feel the same way?” Merlin's voice had gone incredibly soft and condescending, and it only served to rile Morgana up rather than calm her down.

“Uther doesn’t deserve to be cried over. Not after what he did to Ygraine.”

Merlin gaped. “You know?”

“Morgause told me. Since you wouldn’t.” Her upper lip curled up in disgust. “She’s my sister, by the way. _Half_ -sister. Uther kept that from me, too. You can see why I think Arthur will be better off without him.”

When Merlin failed to reply, too shocked to shape his disappointment into words, Morgana bolted towards the door. Merlin grabbed Morgana’s wrist in an attempt at pulling her back from wherever she was heading to.

“No, I can’t let you do this.” Following her to the rebels’ camp would’ve been wiser, but when word got out that the Lady Morgana had allied with the enemy, Merlin would be responsible for every life Morgana would take for herself. Including Arthur, and Freya, and the gods knew who else.

Morgana pushed him away against the nearest wall with a strength that could only be aided by magic.

“ _Don’t touch me_ ,” she gritted through her teeth. “Or it’ll be the last thing you do.”

“Look at you, Morgana.” Merlin gestured frantically at her, trying to conciliate the Morgana he knew – the  kind, well-intentioned girl who’d trusted and protected him with her life – with the bitter person in front of him. “Is this what you want to be?”

“I know what I _don’t_ want to be.” She retorted. “I don’t want to be _you_. I don’t want to be so alone that I have to rely on veiled threats to convince people to keep being my friend.”

“You’re the one who left,” Merlin reminded her, feeling an inexplicable surge of sadness and anger rise up in his chest. “And I still don’t know why. We’re working towards the same goal, Morgana. I just want to help you.”

“By forcing me to stand down and be complicit in my own kind’s genocide? If there’s anything I’ve learnt from you, it’s that having magic doesn’t make us the same.” She paused to take a deep breath, and Merlin saw a glimpse of the old her, a flash of tears, in her eyes. “You’re so caught up in your own destiny that you don’t understand that you’re not the only one who’s suffered. You’re so concerned about Arthur’s feelings that you don’t realise you’re screwing over the people you’re actually supposed to _help_ in the process. I am _not_ the bad guy in this story, but it’s still better than being reduced to a mere prop in yours.”

This time, when Morgana attempted to flee the room, Merlin let her go.

* * *

In hindsight, _not_ informing Arthur of Morgana’s intentions would have led to disastrous results as well.

Merlin could just picture letting Morgana’s group of rebels occupy Camelot and throw Uther’s body in a ditch, only to go on with their lives as if the new king – if he could even be recognised as such, instead of the puppet monarch they would undoubtedly try to turn him into – hadn’t just experienced the greatest trauma of his life. Merlin and Morgana awkwardly bumping into each other in the castle and reminiscing about the good old times when they’d threatened to squash every ounce of happiness out of each other. Morgana letting it slip that Merlin had magic and that he knew about her plan all along and Arthur never being able to trust him again.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing he could’ve done other than being completely honest with Arthur and out both Morgana and himself.

Arthur nearly had a heart attack.

“What do you mean, you and Morgana have _magic_?”

He was white as a sheet and he seemed to have temporarily forgotten that, as private as his chambers were, anyone could still come in at any second.

In the meantime, Merlin was too busy twisting his hands and watching the tip of his boots to remind Arthur. “Just what I said. There really isn’t any other way to explain it.”

The absolute casualty with which Merlin dropped a news such as this one left Arthur gaping like a fish. Merlin had been surprised by his own bravery, too, having already prefigured a life of lies and hiding for himself, but now that _not_ knowing about Merlin’s magic constituted an actual, tangible risk for Arthur, Merlin found himself almost relieved to have an excuse to tell him.

He wondered if the conversation they were going to have would have changed Morgana’s mind. Probably not. Arthur could be trusted with their secret, but every future that didn’t include a dead Uther was not a future she was interested in fighting for.

“You must be kidding me,” Arthur said. “There is absolutely no way-“

“I can prove it to you,” Merlin cut in before Arthur could start ranting about his uselessness and loose tongue and poor table manners. “What matters now is that Morgana’s going to try to kill your father. We _have_ to stop her.”

“Morgana would never do that.” Arthur shook his head like he didn’t know what to worry about first. His servant was a sorcerer and that, Merlin knew, was a hard blow itself. But that his adoptive sister was plotting against their kingdom, when just last week they’d been working together to snap Arthur out of a love spell… “Never, not in a million years. She and my father had a few disagreements, but she’d never try to kill him.”

“She already did.” Merlin confessed. “Last year, but she stopped herself before she could go through with it. I don’t think we’ll be as lucky this time.”

Arthur was trying and failing to wrap his head around everything Merlin was telling him. “Merlin, this is ridiculous. If you or Morgana had magic I would know.”

“What exactly did you think we were doing all day, every day?”

Arthur shuddered. “You don’t want to know. Come to think of it, magic is something I’ll sooner accept.”

Merlin hesitated, holding his breath until he could figure out how to justify himself. “I need you to understand why I never told you.  I _wanted to_ , but I was afraid.”

“I’m not my father, Merlin.”

“I know now.” Merlin nodded. “I’ve always known, but I couldn’t trust anyone. I couldn’t. If Uther found out-”

“I understand,” Arthur started, swallowing down a lump that was preventing him from speaking, “why you wouldn’t tell me. And I can promise you my father will never find out about you or Morgana.”

Merlin had a bad feeling about this. “But?”

There was a twist to Arthur’s mouth, a terrible grimace that spoiled the beautiful lines of his face. “I do wish you’d come to me with this a lot sooner. Because there’s not much I can do now.”

“Take your father away! Find Morgana!” Arthur didn’t look nearly as distressed as Merlin had expected him to be, and it was stressing _him_ out. “I know where she hides. I followed her.”

“Do you seriously think she hasn’t alerted the rest of the rebels by now?” Arthur replied. “They could be on the move already. If they don’t get Uther, who knows what they might do.”

“Oh, God.” Merlin needed to lie down, but he had to settle for sliding to the floor. “Oh, God. This is all my fault.”

“It damn well is.” Arthur agreed, a spark of rage burning in his eyes. “Did you even _think_ about the consequences when you told Morgana about your magic? Or were you so excited to have a magic buddy that you didn’t realise how dangerous it would be for her?”

“What was I supposed to do? Keep her in the dark so she could feel even more alone and betrayed? Because that would’ve gone _so_ much better.” Merlin growled. “It’s not my fault your father kills our people for a living. If it wasn’t for you-“ he trailed off, because what he was about to say wasn’t something Arthur could be allowed to know. Not yet, anyway.

But Arthur was insistent. “What? If it wasn’t for me, what?”

“Nothing.”

Something he couldn’t quite place crossed Arthur’s face. “Do you agree with her? That my father deserves to be dead?”

Merlin lifted his gaze just slightly. “He’s your father. You love him. He deserves to live for that alone.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

Arthur couldn’t seriously expect Merlin to care about Uther outside of his family bonds with him, but Merlin couldn’t justify Morgana’s actions, either. He wouldn’t. Because if he’d recognised what had been right in front of him the whole time, what he’d ignored because of his preoccupation with Arthur’s happiness, he would’ve had to beat himself up for screwing up every chance he had at helping Morgana. She had a duty to her people, but Merlin had a duty to Arthur first.

“It doesn’t matter.” Merlin replied. “Right now, it’s the only answer I feel like giving.”

What a fool Merlin had been, to think he could keep refusing to pick sides. He’d tricked himself into thinking he could walk this gray line of moral righteousness and come out on top, but he’d done nothing but dig his own grave.   

And now Morgana’s voice was in his head, taunting him from God-knows-where, making it perfectly clear that she’d been listening in. _You chose him over me._

If she’d heard, she couldn’t be too far away, but that didn’t help him. If he found her now, Morgana wouldn’t be as accommodating towards Arthur as she’d planned to be.

_He chose Uther over me._

_I thought we were friends._

Arthur, blissfully oblivious of the dreadful monologue Morgana was unloading, ran his hands through his hair in deep discomfort. There would never be a time where Arthur would choose anyone else over his father, even someone he loved like Morgana. Even if his father was wrong, even if he had, consciously or not, killed Arthur’s mother. If Uther died at someone’s hands, Arthur would never move on, never grow up to be the king everyone expected him to be. How could Morgana have ever believed otherwise?

“What do we do now?”

Merlin reached for Morgana again, but he couldn’t find her. She’d retreated from his mind, leaving a cold feeling that ran from the back of his head down his spine and to his feet. She couldn’t come back now, not if few chosen words to Uther had the power to damn her, but it wouldn’t stop her from getting to Freya, whose only fault had been her place among Merlin’s loved ones. For all Merlin knew, she might’ve been dead already.

His stomach tied in a knot. He didn’t want to tell Arthur what he really thought: that one way or another, they were all doomed, and there was a chance neither of them would come out of it alive. “I wish I knew.”

* * *

Merlin was thankful for the darkness that claimed him, the heaviness that dragged him down before the vision came to an end, because he couldn’t bear to watch their fallout again. He barely gave himself time to recover before lighting another crystal – and another, and another, and another.

Unmindful of Balinor’s warnings and the cave’s thwarting of his magic, he watched as futures burned out in front of him, along with him, _because_ of him. He never started the fire, but his attempts to smother the flames only ended up with more smoke than he’d begun with.

The next days passed in a haze of sleep and dreams and glowing crystals and distant scoldings that Merlin promptly tuned out time and time again.

* * *

When Morgause and the Knights of Medhir broke into Camelot with the aid of an oblivious Morgana, Merlin decided against poisoning her and appealed to her common sense. It only worked once and didn’t stop Morgana from trying again, a few months later – and again, and again.

In another life, Merlin let Morgana die from the head wound he had accidentally given her while she was on her way to stab Uther, only to find her perfectly well and awake in the morning with no recollection of what had happened. Someone had snuck in during the night; someone with a huge healing power who’d caught wind of what was happening to Morgana. Morgause’s name had come up, but them having allies in the citadel was a thought that crossed both Gaius and Merlin’s minds.

Letting Kara escape execution only threw both her and Mordred in Morgana’s arms, and in those lives that didn’t pair Mordred and Kara together it was Merlin’s continuous attempts to frame him that sent him over the edge.

Merlin called on the dragon the second he found Arthur wounded on the battlefield. Kilgharrah swooped in, torn wings and barely standing on his legs, and made it only halfway through the journey to Avalon before crashing dead to the ground.

The second before the light left Arthur’s eyes, Merlin lay his forehead on his and pressed his lips to Arthur’s. He felt just enough pressure to know Arthur was kissing him back before the hand that was stroking his hair went limp on the grass.

* * *

When Merlin woke up for the last time, the light that welcomed him was so blinding and so unlike the darkness he’d spent days floating in, that he thought he’d died. He couldn’t move, either;  he only realised his cheeks were wet with tears when Balinor knelt next to him and leant forward to wipe them away.

“Useless,” Merlin gasped, fighting to come back to his senses. “That was _useless_.”

Balinor was forcing himself to be as patient as possible, but he looked paler than usual. So pale, in fact, that Merlin could barely see his ghost form. “Merlin, you need to stop.”

“No, no.”

“You’re wasting away,” Balinor insisted. “It’s suicide.”

Merlin tried to move his head to the side, but something was pinning him down, like a giant rock boulder sitting on his chest and preventing him from breathing. He could barely manage to grit out: “Not as long as I live.”

“Well, you might not have a lot of time left.”

Balinor’s words finally triggered a reaction in him, and he saw, through half-lidded eyes, that the light he’d seen had been the whole cave, glowing. Not just one crystal and not all of them: every inch of the wall, every rock, even _Balinor_ , flickering and pulsing and melting into thin air. The ceiling was crumbling down around them, shaking the earth Merlin had been resting on.

Merlin gaped. “I _did_ this?”

“You’ve been using too much power.” Balinor explained. “They won’t let you take any more. Merlin, _please_ , tell me you have a plan. Tell me you’re not just reaching blindly.”

He _had_ a plan. He’d changed every variable that might’ve led to Arthur’s death, and he’d still come up empty-handed. It didn’t matter how many people he killed for the cause, or how much he sacrificed; as long as he was the one shaping the course of Arthur’s life, Arthur was doomed to die young and unaccomplished.

Merlin pushed himself up with every ounce of strength he had. “I’d pinned his death on Mordred.” He said. “Then on Morgana, and on Uther. But it was me, all along.”

Balinor shook his head. “I don’t understand. Merlin, you need to get out of here.”

But Merlin was in no rush. Clarity was pervading his consciousness, slowing his thought process down so he could better follow it. “Mordred killed Arthur, but I was the one who let Mordred live. Morgana turned Mordred against Arthur, but I isolated her first. I made Arthur’s heart cold to magic and hid mine from him until it was too late. _I_ stood by as Arthur and his father hunted down my kind without doing anything to stop them or stop the war before it started. Arthur might be destined to die, but I wasn’t destined to do any of these things – it was _my_ choice.”

“Don’t beat yourself up like that.” His father didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, that he wasn’t just wallowing in self-pity. “If it hadn’t been you, it would’ve been someone else.”

“But it was always me.” Merlin looked around again, at the debris falling over them like snowflakes from the sky. He hadn’t meant to destroy the cave, but it had happened anyway. “In every alternate reality, it was always me. If my destiny was to save him, then this is my last chance to do something.”

Balinor was beside him, and then he wasn’t. He reappeared again three seconds later, several feet away from where he’d been standing. “Make it quick, Merlin!”

“The moment I touched Arthur’s life, he was doomed,” Merlin explained. “Nothing we did afterwards mattered as much. So if I’d never met him-“

“ _That_ is your brilliant plan?” Balinor shouted across from him to be heard over the crumbling cave. “Arthur was destined to die like the two of you were destined to meet. You can’t avoid one by avoiding the other.”

It was time for Merlin to stand up. “I was told Arthur was his own bane, but I think it was me. If I’m supposed to be his salvation as well, the best thing I can do is let him live his second life without me.”

“There won’t _be_ a second life.” Balinor reached forward to pull him out of the way of a falling rock. Merlin heard it clatter to the ground and break. “It’ll be the first, all over again. You’ll lose all your memories only to be brought together again. You can’t escape this.”

“We were only brought together in this lifetime so I could learn from my mistakes. And I _have_. I know what to do now to keep him safe from the start.” Merlin gripped his father’s arm, which wasn’t any different from clawing at air. “Arthur might be dead, but I’m still here. Which means my destiny isn’t over. If this is the only way, I have to try.” Then he looked up at Balinor. “Maybe this way, I’ll save you too.”

Because Arthur hadn’t been the only casualty touched by Merlin’s life – not by a long shot. It had just been the one to cut Merlin’s heart open, the catalyst to fix Merlin’s wrongs.

Balinor was like water in Merlin’s hands, sand slipping through his fingers. “Next time around, we may not meet at all.”

He’d never seen his father smile, but that kind of sadness had never been part of him; so Merlin smiled, despite wanting to cry.

 “If that turns out to be the case,” he choked out, ignoring the cold that was seeping into his bones, “it was nice to meet you.”

Balinor’s presence had simmered down to a tiny flame, and then to a gust of wind – and then to nothing and everything at once. But it didn’t matter where his spirit had gone, because it wouldn’t stay there for much longer.

Merlin didn’t have time to look into the crystals; he didn’t think he’d be allowed to, anyway. Any more magic taken from the cave and it would implode on him, so Merlin had to make the best of his last try. If he made one wrong move now, all would be lost.

_No one’s ever managed to do such a thing. It takes much too high a power, Merlin, much higher than yours._

But if Merlin had been right about being led to the cave for a reason - not once and not twice, but _three_ times – that power must’ve been within his reach. Whether the gods liked it or not, it had always been his to begin with, his birthright, brimming under his skin just waiting for Merlin to finally claim it. And now that the moment had come, he gladly took it.

What he’d once had to visualise, now he had to bring to life; a whole new world built from scratch, from memories, from wishful thinking.  It was more than he’d ever believed he could accomplish and nothing short of a miracle, but he was doing it. The cave was coming apart around him, blending in the grey shades Merlin had dived in, emptying every minute just to fill it again.

And then he realised he wasn’t alone.

“Merlin?”

Merlin was still deep in his magic, still making his way backwards. And this Arthur, so wonderfully alive and torn out of the fabric of time, was the first thing he’d brought back and the first thing he’d wanted to see. He was dying, dying all over again, blood dripping from his wound, but Merlin would never let him move forward. A few hours before, and the wound would never have existed; a few days, and no armour would weigh him down.

Merlin took this Arthur by the hand and kissed him - kissed him until their hair grew shorter, and their hearts grew lighter, and their lungs started burning as they ran across the courtyard on a hot spring day; Arthur’s hands reaching and never catching and Merlin pretending to mind.

_You’ve had your fun, my friend._

They were the sun and moon, chasing each other relentlessly in the sky, and then there was just the sun, beating down on two boys.

The blonde one was staring at Merlin in amusement, like a cat wanting to play with its prey before killing it. “Do I know you?”

Merlin tightened his grip on the bullied squire’s arm and led him away from the whole scene. He had no intention of wasting his day arguing with a guy he barely knew, and calling him “friend” had been a mistake on his part. “No,” he said, unable to explain the heaviness in his chest. “No, you don’t.”

The kiss came to an end, and Arthur vanished from him.

* * *

Arthur Pendragon had been king for exactly two years, seven months and a week, and he’d never been confronted with serious problems, such as an army of undead climbing the castle walls, until his sister had fallen ill.

It was a miracle, really, how he’d managed to survive that long. Several assassination attempts had been foiled before they could even be set in motion, and falling chandeliers always seemed to miss him by a whisker – something he could’ve easily pinpointed on Morgana, if Morgana hadn’t repeatedly sworn that she’d never had anything to do with it.

Figures that the forces of evil his father had warned him against would wait until Camelot was at its most vulnerable before marching upon the citadel, because Morgana had always done a spectacular job at singlehandedly keeping enemies out; it hadn’t occurred to anyone that the castle might be in need of more magical protection, and now their citizens were paying with their lives.

So that was how they’d gotten stuck in the throne room on the hottest day of Arthur’s reign, watching one pitiful magic trick after another. Arthur sat on the beautiful embroidered throne that he’d been gifted by the very same people now parading in front of him, a sign of appreciation from the magical community after finally being freed from his father’s reign of terror.

Sometimes, he didn’t feel like he deserved it. He’d only learnt to see things outside his point of view after Uther died, when Morgana had revealed her magic to him and helped him see the truth: magic wasn’t evil in itself, but it was a potentially damaging force that needed counterbalancing.

He decided he wouldn’t be too hard on the sorcerers in front of him, if only because it wasn’t easy to make an impression when all you wanted to do was to dive naked into a frozen lake to escape the stifling heat – even with the threat of the immortal army looming on their heads. Some of them Arthur was already taking into consideration, all of their faces mastered into various stages of disgruntlement – a guy named Gilli, some knight named Valiant, a disfigured man who, although shady, really seemed to have the best intentions.

He’d thought he’d found his perfect man by the time a sorcerer named Ruadan left the room, and he’d had half a mind to send everyone back and go take a dip in the river. But the guards outside the door informed him that there was no use sending back only one person, so Arthur, sweat trickling down his brow, allowed them in and prayed to himself to make it quick.

The boy who strolled in the room was as tall as Arthur was – maybe a bit taller, to his dismay. Black hair, blue eyes, a scarf tightly wrapped around his neck. Arthur had seen him wandering around the castle a few times, but he’d never thought to entertain a conversation with him. He knew he worked for Gaius, the court physician, but this was the first time he presented himself as a sorcerer.

Arthur cleared his throat, asking the boy to state his name and go on with his introduction. “And for the love of God, please hurry up.”

The boy smiled – he was the first to smile on that godforsaken day – and it was only the beginning, but already he could see the end. “My name is Merlin.”

Merlin, Arthur thought, was a really stupid name. But it tasted familiar on his lips, like it’d rolled on his tongue thousands of times before. He tried it out right then, out loud. “Merlin.”

Merlin’s grin widened impossibly as a swarm of butterflies took flight from the palm of his hand.


End file.
